“Neither will I have you, so get out of this house quick.”
“Leave me alone! Leave me alone, I tell you! If you touch my child I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
“Out you go, you harlot, and to ... with you.”
“Harry! Liza! Harry! Harry! Children!” cries the old woman.
Mona asks the women of the crowd what is going on.
“Don’t you know, miss? It’s Liza Kinnish, the girl with the German baby. Her brother has come home from the war, and he is turning her out—and no wonder.”
A number of men, half-intoxicated, come from the ale-house, but they make no attempt to intervene, and at the next moment a bare-headed soldier, also in drink, with the upper buttons of his tunic torn open, comes from the house, dragging after him a girl with a baby in her arms and her disordered hair streaming on to her shoulders.
“Out you go—you and your d—— German offal!”
Flinging the girl into the street, the man returns to the house and clashes the door behind him.
“Let me in!” screams the girl, hammering at the door with her spare hand.