Kate sat in the corner of the public house, sipping at her gin, and watching the mixed clientele. As well as the regular dock workers, porters and assorted riff-raff, there was a floating population of seamen with their distinctive clothes and language. She shuffled her feet, creating a circular pattern on the dirty straw and sawdust on the floor and leaned back in her chair.
“You’re a prime-looking woman,” a porter said, leering at her over the rim of a pewter tankard.
“Too prime for you,” Kate said, adding a short two-word injunction to send him away.
“Well, you look like a bunter,” the porter protested, spreading his hands.
“And you look a dim flat,” Kate said. “Bugger off.”
“I’ll not take that from the likes of you!” the porter said and looked down in sudden alarm as Kate pressed
