When she told him that the natives called her The Dawn Pearl, his delight was unbounded. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. He wriggled underneath her heaving body, pinned like an insect.
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