The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. I had a hunch. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. For a long time neither spoke again. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth.
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