Morel also walked with a gang, but he said nothing.

He frowned peevishly as he went.

Many men passed into the Prince of Wales or into Ellen's.

Morel, feeling sufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along under the dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down the mud of Greenhill Lane.
Mrs.Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet of the colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang of the gates as they went through the stile up the field.
"There's some herb beer behind the pantry door," she said.

"Th' master'll want a drink, if he doesn't stop." But he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink, since it was raining.