“Khoo, Mabel.”
“Who wants to be anyone’s mother?”
“Not me. Ug. Beastly little brats.”
“Oh shut up. Oh you do make me tired.”
“Kids are jolly. A1. I hope I have lots.”
Surprised into amazement, Miriam looked up to consult the face of Jessie Wheeler, the last speaker—a tall flat-figured girl with a strong squarish pale face, hollow cheeks, and firm colourless lips. Was it being a Baptist that made her have such an extraordinary idea? Miriam’s eyes sought refuge from the defiant beam of her sea-blue eyes in the shimmering cloud of her hair. The strangest hair in the school; negroid in its intensity of fuzziness, but saved by its fine mesh.
“Don’t you adore kiddies, Miss Henderson?”
“I think they’re rather nice,” said Miriam quickly, and returned to her book.
“I should jolly well think they were,” said Jessie fervently.
“Hope your husband’ll think so too, my dear,” said Polly, getting up.