He did. She was laying the supper while Mrs. Backfield finished mending a curtain upstairs, when he marched suddenly into the room. He had come in from the yard, and his clothes smelt of the cow-stalls and of the manure that he loved. His face was moist; he stood in front of her and mopped his brow.
"I'm hungry, Naomi. Wot have you got fur me?"
"There's eggs...."
"Wot else?"
"Bread ... cheese...."
She could scarcely frame the homely words. For some unaccountable reason she felt afraid, felt like some poor creature in a trap.
"Wot else?"
"That's all."
"All! But I'm still hungry. Wot more do you think I want?"