Sons and Lovers - Daimon Club

So the boy remained alone.
Mrs. Morel loved her marketing. In the tiny market-place on
the top of the hill, where four roads, from Nottingham and Derby,
Ilkeston and Mansfield, meet, many stalls were erected. Brakes ran
in from surrounding villages. The market-place was full of women,
the streets packed with men. It was amazing to see so many men
everywhere in the streets. Mrs. Morel usually quarrelled with
her lace woman, sympathised with her fruit man--who was a gabey,
but his wife was a bad 'un--laughed with the fish man--who was
a scamp but so droll--put the linoleum man in his place, was cold
with the odd-wares man, and only went to the crockery man when she
was driven--or drawn by the cornflowers on a little dish; then she
was coldly polite.
"I wondered how much that little dish was," she said.
"Sevenpence to you."
"Thank you."
She put the dish down and walked away; but she could not leave
the market-place without it. Again she went by where the pots
lay coldly on the floor, and she glanced at the dish furtively,
pretending not to.
She was a little woman, in a bonnet and a black costume.
Her bonnet was in its third year; it was a great grievance to Annie.
"Mother!" the girl implored, "don't wear that nubbly little bonnet."
"Then what else shall I wear," replied the mother tartly.
"And I'm sure it's right enough."
It had started with a tip; then had had flowers; now was
reduced to black lace and a bit of jet.
"It looks rather come down," said Paul. "Couldn't you give
it a pick-me-up?"
"I'll jowl your head for impudence," said Mrs. Morel, and she
tied the strings of the black bonnet valiantly under her chin.
She glanced at the dish again. Both she and her enemy,
the pot man, had an uncomfortable feeling, as if there were something
between them. Suddenly he shouted: