"I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair. “We settled long ago—we’re hard stuff. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding.
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