“Then, etc.”
And again the boy’s delicate voice rang out the ferocious chorus, with something, Lancelot fancied, of fiendish exultation, and every worn face lighted up with a coarse laugh, that indicated no malice—but also no mercy....
Lancelot almost ran out into the night—into a triad of fights, two drunken men, two jealous wives, and a brute who struck a poor, thin, worn-out woman, for trying to coax him home. Lancelot rushed up to interfere, but a man seized his uplifted arm.
“He’ll only beat her all the more when he getteth home.”
“She has stood that every Saturday night for the last seven years, to my knowledge,” said Tregarva; “and worse, too, at times.”
“Good God! is there no escape for her from her tyrant?”
“No, sir. It’s only you gentlefolks who can afford such luxuries; your poor man may be tied to a harlot, or your poor woman to a ruffian, but once done, done for ever.”
“Well,” thought Lancelot, “we English have a characteristic way of proving the holiness of the marriage tie. The angel of Justice and Pity cannot sever it, only the stronger demon of Money.”