“The devils from Scotland Yard have got my Arthur for sixteen months. They came into court this morning and told⁠—bloody lies.”

“Lies, is it,” said the Irishwoman. “Sure God Almighty’s truth ’ud choke ’em, the⁠—bastards.”

“He’ll be six months in Wandsworth and nine in the Isle of Wight,” moaned the wife.

“But he knows the ropes; he’s done a stretch before, remember,” said a friend. “Besides, it’s not as if you didn’t know what it was like; you’ve done your bit, too, my girl.”

“That’s so, and everybody likes my Arthur, but⁠—but I want him⁠—oh, I want him!”

She hugged the spoiled packet of washing in her arms, and then threw it across the room. “Take it, Sally,” she said to a pretty girl. “I can’t bear to touch it now he’s gone from me.”