“What’s wrong wi’ ye?” said Corrie, entering.
“I was just looking at the price of Zeniths,” she stammered.
“Away and attend to the post office,” he returned. “I mun be in the shop this forenoon. . . . D’ye hear me?”
“Aye.” To take the paper with her would be sheer madness, she reflected quickly; besides he was done with it. She would come back for it at the first opportunity. Letting it fall where she had found it, she got up and left the kitchen.
He followed her, growling.
* * * * *
At half-past eleven, the morning delivery finished, Sam, as was his custom, came into the shop to purchase a paper.
“There’s no’ one left,” said the boy.
From the opposite counter, where he was serving a customer, Corrie called to the boy—
“Ye’ll get one in the house.” It was not the first time he had sold his own paper to the postman.