The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. It fell to the ground and smoked ominously. “Do something!” But he laid by his prey, half-watching the fight, gorging on the woman he had caught that had been meant for Rhea and her child. It was the gallows. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child.
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