"No—isn't it horrid? I think she wears old sacks chiefly."
"And reduces them to the minimum. Her naked feet must be made of iron."
"Good morning, Lovey," said Grace. "Have you been to Holne? No; I see that you haven't, for you carry no basket."
"Mornin', maiden; an' to you, my gentleman," she answered very civilly. "No more Holne for me. I've got a better market for my poor goods now; an' nearer."
"The War Prison?"
"Ess fay! Plenty of money there for them that have anything to sell. I can scrape a few pence out of they Americans every week; though how I keep body an' soul together is my daily wonder."
"You would do it easier if you wore more petticoats, granny," said Peter.
"Petticoats!" she answered. "'Tis very well for the likes of you, bursting wi' fatness under your fine linen, to talk o' petticoats. Give me a crown an' I'll buy one—since you'm so anxious about it."
"Why, you're the richest woman on the Moor, Lovey," said Grace. "You know perfectly well that you have a gold mine hidden away somewhere."
The old woman showed her teeth and growled like a dog.