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. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. She kicked both of her legs with the force of a bull, sending a blow into Rhea’s borrowed legs. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. Capes was something superadded.
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