The Vicar, feeling that he could not do much more, called to Mrs. Propett who came back followed by Miss Arbuthnot, and said he was afraid her husband was very weak and he would come again at any time she sent for him.
“That’s very kind of your reverence,” said Mrs. Propett, in whose wrinkled old face every wrinkle was marked with dirt as if drawn with ink. “It’s hard work looking after Propett, sir. Sixpennorth of gin, that’s what I want, sir, to keep my strength up. I asked her for sixpennorth of gin, but she said he hadn’t got none,” said Mrs. Propett, looking malevolently at Miss Arbuthnot.
As Mrs. Propett appeared to be living mentally in a Golden Age when gin was still the cheap drink of the happy poor, and to be quite unaware that gin was now practically unprocurable and in any ca
