Part 6 When Ann Veronica reached her little bed-sitting-room again, every nerve in her body was quivering with shame and self-disgust. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. "The ban-dogs!" thundered a tall man, whose stature and former avocations had procured him the nickname of "The long drover of the Borough market. But if we had gone under—!” They regarded one another silently, and Ann Veronica had one of her penetrating flashes. “Look here! Aren’t you going a little too far? This—this is degradation—making a fuss with sleeves.
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