He dashed his hand over his eyes, and then swung round, turning back towards the groups, lest he should become weak in solitude. Somehow the character of the crowd had changed while he had been away. Angry murmurs surged through it like waves, curses beat against one another, a rumour blew like foam from mouth to mouth.
"They're putting up the fences—workmen from Tonbridge—fences down by Socknersh."
"Drat 'em! durn 'em!"
"And why shudn't there be fences? What good did this old rubbidge-pläace ever do anyone? Scarce a mouthful fur a goat. Now it'll be built on, and there'll be money fur everybody."
"Money fur Bardon."
"Money fur us all. The Squire äun't no Tory grabber."
"Then wot dud he täake our land fur?"
"Wot wur the use of it?—save fur such as wanted a quiet pläace fur their wenching."
"Put up yer fists!"