“They’re not clean, they’re to be washed to-morrow.”
“Tut, tut, tut,” said the deacon, sitting on the edge of the bed; then he pulled his boots on over bare feet and stretched down his trousers as far as he could. After that he went meekly downstairs.
“Where’s my Sunday coat, mam?”
“In the chest where it is always.”
“In the chest?”
“Aye.”
Adam Jones bent over the big box where his Sunday coat lay spread out carefully from Sabbath to Sabbath. He groped around, fished out the coat, put it on unaided by Gladys, and leaned over his wife to say good-bye.
“Ye’re not lovin’ me much to-day, mother, are ye?”
Gladys gulped and pushed him away.
He left the house, his Bible under his arm, to join the people streaming up Twthill to the Chapel. Gladys ran to the door and called once. He turned around, but she bit her lips and said, “No matter.”