Bob had married deplorably
beneath him; it was unpardonable, let the character of the girl be
what it might. Of course you recognise the item in John Hewett's
personality which serves to explain this singular attitude. But,
viewed generally, it was one of those bits of human inconsistency
over which the observer smiles, and which should be recommended to
good people in search of arguments for the equality of men.
After that little dialogue, Bob went home in a disagreeable temper.
To begin with, his mood had been ruffled, for the landlady at his
lodgings--the fourth to which he had removed this year--was
'nasty' about a week or two of unpaid rent, and a man on whom he had
counted this evening for the payment of a debt was keeping out of
his way. He found Pennyloaf sitting on the stairs with her two
children, as usual; poor Pennyloaf had not originality enough to
discover new expressions of misery, and that one bright idea of
donning her best dress was a single instance of ingenuity. In
obedience to Jane Snowdon, she kept herself and the babies and the
room tolerably clean, but everything was done in the most dispirited
way.
'What are you kicking about here for?' asked Bob impatiently.
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