“A packet of woodbines, please,” said Tom.
She reached them from the shelf behind her.
“Have you got any bull’s-eyes?”
“Yes—three-ha’pence an ounce.”
“They’ve got dearer.”
“And they’ll get dearer still, I reckon.”
“Give me three penn’orth, please.”
She took them out of a glass bottle at her elbow.
“Got any monster telephones?”
“I dunno—I’m afeard we’re sold out.”