“Did you say 'Dorothy,' ma'am?” she ses to my missis.
“I did,” ses my wife. “She's been writing to my husband.”
“It must be the same one,” ses Mrs. Smithers. “She's been writing to mine too.”
The two of 'em stood there looking at each other for a minute, and then my wife, holding the letter between 'er finger and thumb as if it was pison, passed it to Mrs. Smithers.
“It's the same,” ses Mrs. Smithers. “Was the envelope marked 'Private'?”
“I didn't see no envelope,” ses my missis. “This is all I found.”
Mrs. Smithers stepped on to the wharf and, taking 'old of my missis by the arm, led her away whispering. At the same moment the skipper walked across the deck and whispered to me.
“Wot d'ye mean by it?” he ses. “Wot d'ye mean by 'aving letters from Dorothy and not telling me about it?”
“I can't help 'aving letters any more than you can,” I ses. “Now p'r'aps you'll understand wot I meant by calling 'er a forward hussy.”
“Fancy 'er writing to you!” he ses, wrinkling 'is forehead. “Pph! She must be crazy.”