He stood with his ancient nightgown flapping
round his still more ancient legs, slightly shivering; then, pulling
the door open, he looked forth. On the stairs just above him Mrs. Hughs,
clasping her baby with one arm, was holding the other out at full length
between herself and Hughs. He heard the latter say: "You've drove me to
it; I'll do a swing for you!" Mrs. Hughs' thin body brushed past into
his room; blood was dripping from her wrist. Creed saw that Hughs had
his bayonet in his hand. With all his might he called out: "Ye ought to
be ashamed of yourself!" raising the poker to a position of defence. At
this moment--more really dangerous than any he had ever known--it was
remarkable that he instinctively opposed to it his most ordinary turns
of speech. It was as though the extravagance of this un-English violence
had roused in him the full measure of a native moderation. The sight of
the naked steel deeply disgusted him; he uttered a long sentence.
What did Hughs call this--disgracin' of the house at this time in the
mornin'? Where was he brought up? Call 'imself a soldier, attackin' of
old men and women in this way? He ought to be ashamed!
While these words were issuing between the yellow stumps of teeth in
that withered mouth, Hughs stood silent, the back of his arm covering
his eyes.
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