She cut up the little boy's bread and butter into strips,
arranged his fish, and watched, with amusement, his father turn to him
with a jerk of remembrance.
"It's good of you to look after young Jimmy," he said, smiling at
Marcella. "He misses his mother."
"Is she dead?"
"Yes. He's only me. There are a surprising lot of lonely people in the
world, aren't there? The little lady next to me--she's a widow, I find.
It's hard when a woman has had a man to depend on and suddenly finds
herself left to battle with the world, isn't it? Women are such fragile
little flowers to me--they want protecting from the winds."
Marcella looked at him; he was rather fat: the excitement of his talk
with the little lady had made his forehead shine; when he smiled his
drooping moustache could not hide a row of blackened, broken teeth. He
smelt of stale tobacco, as though he carried old pipes in every pocket.
He ate quickly and noisily, his eyes on his plate, his shoulders moving.
Jimmy asked timidly if he might have a piece of bread and jam. His
father said "Yes, of course," and went on eating. Marcella spread the
jam for him, and then turned to his father.
"I don't know many women," she said. "But I'd just like to see a man
treat me as a fragile flower."
"Ah, wasteful woman!" said Mr. Peters, smiling fatuously as he wrestled
with a hard piece of ham rather too big for his mouth.
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