"Damnably. Left the coach at Fiddler's Cross, and trudged down across
the fields. We were soaked enough on the coach, though, and couldn't
get much worse."
"We?"
"Why, you don't suppose I was the only passenger by the coach, eh?" he
put in quickly.
"No, I forgot."
There was an awkward silence, and William's eyes travelled round the
kitchen till they lit on the kettle standing by the hearthstone.
"Got any rum in the cupboard?" While she was getting it out, he took
off his cap and great-coat, hung them up behind the door, and, pulling
the small table close to the fire, sat beside it, toasting his knees.
'Lizabeth set bottle and glass before him, and stood watching as he
mixed the stuff.
"So you're only a private."
William set down the kettle with some violence.
"You still keep a cursedly rough tongue, I notice."
"An' you've been a soldier five year. I reckoned you'd be a sergeant at
least," she pursued simply, with her eyes on his undecorated sleeve.
William took a gulp.
"How do you know I've not been a sergeant?"
"Then you've been degraded. I'm main sorry for that."
"Look here, you hush up! Damn it! there's girls enough have fancied
this coat, though it ain't but a private's; and that's enough for you, I
take it.
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