n't yer? I like thet!'

'Let me go by,' said Liza. 'I don't want ter talk ter you.'

'Na, I know thet,' said the other; 'but I want ter talk ter you, an' I
shan't let yer go until I've said wot I wants ter sy.'

Liza looked round for help. At the beginning of the altercation the
loafers about the public-house had looked up with interest, and
gradually gathered round in a little circle. Passers-by had joined in,
and a number of other people in the street, seeing the crowd, added
themselves to it to see what was going on. Liza saw that all eyes were
fixed on her, the men amused and excited, the women unsympathetic,
rather virtuously indignant. Liza wanted to ask for help, but there
were so many people, and they all seemed so much against her, that she
had not the courage to. So, having surveyed the crowd, she turned her
eyes to Mrs. Blakeston, and stood in front of her, trembling a little,
and very white.

'Na, 'e ain't there,' said Mrs. Blakeston, sneeringly, 'so yer needn't
look for 'im.'

'I dunno wot yer mean,' answered Liza, 'an' I want ter go awy. I ain't
done nothin' ter you.'

'Not done nothin' ter me?' furiously repeated the woman. 'I'll tell
yer wot yer've done ter me--you've robbed me of my 'usbind, you 'ave.
I never 'ad a word with my 'usbind until you took 'im from me. An' now
it's all you with 'im. 'E's got no time for 'is wife an' family--it's
all you. An' 'is money, too. I never git a penny of it; if it weren't
for the little bit I 'ad saved up in the siving-bank, me an' my
children 'ud be starvin' now! An' all through you!' She shook her fist
at her.

'I never 'ad any money from anyone.'

'Don' talk ter me; I know yer did. Yer dirty bitch! You oughter be
ishimed of yourself tikin' a married man from 'is family, an' 'im old
enough ter be yer father.'

'She's right there!' said one or two of the onlooking women. 'There
can't be no good in 'er if she tikes somebody else's 'usbind.'

'I'll give it yer!' proceeded Mrs. Blakeston, getting more hot and
excited, brandishing her fist, and speaking in a loud voice, hoarse
with rage. 'Oh, I've been tryin' ter git 'old on yer this four weeks.
Why, you're a prostitute--that's wot you are!'

'I'm not!' answered Liza indignantly.

'Yus, you are,' repeated Mrs. Blakeston, advancing menacingly, so that
Liza shrank back. 'An' wot's more, 'e treats yer like one. I know 'oo
give yer thet black eye; thet shows what 'e thinks of yer! An' serve
yer bloomin' well