The Public Scandal
In the evening, at supper, Eliza said she had been down Bloodstone Terrace, and could not see what I was making all the fuss about.
"It is simply this," I said. "St. Augustine's is converted into a laundry, and the front garden used as a drying-ground in a way that, to my mind, is not decent."
"Yes," said Eliza, "that's Mrs. Pedder. The poor woman has to do something for her living. She's just started, and only got one job at present. It would be cruel—"
"Not at all. Let her wash, if she must wash, but let her wash somewhere else. I cannot have these offensive rags flapping in my face when I walk down the street."
"They're not offensive rags. I'm most particular about your things."
"What do you mean?"
"It's your things that she washes. I thought I'd give her a start."
I dashed off half a glass of beer, put the glass down with a bang, and flung myself back in the chair without a word.
"Don't behave in that silly way," said
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