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Sheila bellowed, a great wail of a sound from deep in her belly, flinging her tremendous weight towards him. Ain’t enough as I’ve got militiamen quartered on me this se’ennight, lazing about all day, eating me out of house and home and drinking my liquor into the bargain. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. “Is it your maid?” he asked. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners.
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