She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He refused to believe that Anna was not ‘Alcide.
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