The parlour was the space behind the screen of rags. The old man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, and having trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night) with the stem of his pipe, put it into his mouth again.
While he did this, the woman who had already spoken threw her bundle on the floor, and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool, crossing her elbows on her knees, and looking with a bold defiance at the other two.
‘What odds, then? What odds, Mrs. Dilber?’ said the woman. ‘Every person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did!’
‘That’s true, indeed!’ said the laundress. ‘No man more so.’
‘Why, then, don’t stand staring as if you was afraid, woman! Who’s the wiser? We’re not going to pick holes in each other’s coats, I suppose?’
‘No, indeed!’ said Mrs. Dilber and the man together. ‘We should hope not.’
‘Very well then!’ cried the woman. ‘That’s enough. Who’s the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose?’
‘No, indeed,’ said Mrs. Dilber, laughing.
‘If he wanted to keep ’em after he was dead, a wicked old screw,’ pursued the woman, ‘why wasn’t he natural in his lifetime? If he had been, he’d have
