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Updated: May 11, 2025
It belonged to Mrs Climoe, possibly the champion virago of Polpier, and a woman of her word a woman who never missed an opportunity to make trouble. Her allusion to wiping her arms before action he as swiftly understood. The window across the stream belonged to Mrs Climoe's wash-kitchen. Again he cursed the luck that had interposed Bank Holiday and adjourned the washing operations of Polpier.
Was it so thick as all that? . . . You know, I can't see the bridge from my back window only a bit of the Old Doctor's house past the corner of Climoe's: and I shan't see the bridge even when the old house comes down.
I wasn' so mad but, when I heard 'ee, there was time to glimpse mother Climoe's face. Oh yes! I know what you'll be sayin'. 'Talk, is it? you'll be sayin', just like my Sam: an' 'Let them talk. What's talk? an' talk, all the time, two-thirds of every decent woman's life!" "I never heard such dratted nonsense in all my born days." "That's because you was never married.
There she met Mrs Climoe's first accost, and it surprised her beyond measure: for her children were down upon the Quay playing. By rights they should have returned half an hour before: it was, indeed, close upon dinner-time. But she had been in the passage for a whole hour, with just an interval now and then for a dive into the kitchen to see how the pasties were cooking.
She felt morally sure that they could not have returned without her knowing it. They usually made her so exceedingly well aware of their return. Under Mrs Climoe's onslaught of accusation she wheeled about in bewilderment, at the sound of hammering, to perceive Nicky-Nan at the end of the passage, driving a staple into his doorpost with blows of a poker. "There now!
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