"It's all a mistake."
"Mistake?" she ses. "Yes, you made a mistake leaving it in your pocket;
that's all the mistake you've made. That's wot you do, is it, when
you're supposed to be at the wharf? Go about with a blue 'at with red
roses in it! At your time o' life, and a wife at 'ome working herself
to death to make both ends meet and keep you respectable!"
"It's all a mistake," I ses. "The letter wasn't for me."
"Oh, no, o' course not," she ses. "That's why you'd got it in your
pocket, I suppose. And I suppose you'll say your name ain't Bill next."
"Don't say things you'll be sorry for," I ses.
"I'll take care o' that," she ses. "I might be sorry for not saying
some things, but I don't think I shall."
I don't think she was. I don't think she forgot anything, and she raked
up things that I 'ad contradicted years ago and wot I thought was all
forgot. And every now and then, when she stopped for breath, she'd try
and get round to the same side of the table I was.
She follered me to the street door when I went and called things up the
road arter me. I 'ad a snack at a coffee-shop for my dinner, but I
'adn't got much appetite for it; I was too full of trouble and finding
fault with myself, and I went off to my work with a 'art as heavy as
lead.
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