The cloak,
hitching for a moment on the ladder's side, revealed a beaded reticule
that hung from her waist, and clinked as she descended.
"I reckon there's scarce an inch of paint left on my front door," she
observed, as the man steadied her with an arm round her waist, and
settled her comfortably in the stern-sheets.
He unshipped his oars and began to pull.
"Ay. I heard 'em whackin' the door with a deal o' tow-row. They was
going it like billy-O when I came past the Town Quay. But one mustn'
complain, May-mornin's."
"I wasn' complaining," said the woman; "I was just remarking. How's
Maria?"
"She's nicely, thank you."
"And the children?"
"Brave."
"I've put up sixpennyworth of nicey in four packets--that's one
apiece--and I've written the name on each, for you to take home to
'em."
She fumbled in her reticule and produced the packets. The
peppermint-drops and brandy-balls were wrapped in clean white paper,
and the names written in a thin Italian hand. John thanked her and
stowed them in his trousers pockets.
"You'll give my love to Maria? I take it very kindly her letting you
come for me like this.
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