"Love him? By cripes, no! I'd as soon think of loving one of them bugs the Dagoes leave in your bed when they have a room for the night."
"Why did you marry him, then?"
Mrs. King put down her iron and stared out through the door into the sun-baked courtyard where washing flapped and bleached and hens scratched in the dust. It seemed as though she had never thought about it before.
"I suppose I married him for the same reason as you married your chap, kid. I suppose I was took with him, once."
Marcella gathered her plates and teapot on the tray and stood at the door for an instant, visioning last night's glamour ending in loathing, or in dull acceptance of misery and disappointment.
"I do feel sorry, Mrs. King," she said, her eyes damp.
"I'm sorrier for you, kid," said Mrs. King, attacking the shirt again. "How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"And I'm nearly forty-nine. I've got through thirty years of my misery, and you've all yours to come. I've learnt not to care. I go and have a bit of a splash at the Races when I'm pretty flush with money, and I have a glass or two of port with the boys sometimes, and get a laugh out of it. You've got to learn these things yet, poor little devil. But don't you make the mistake I made and be too soft with him."
Marcella shook her head.