She set the mug, with a little, disgusted rap, on the table before Morel.

He drank, gasped, wiped his big moustache on the end of his scarf, drank, gasped, and lay back in his chair.

The woman would not speak to him again.

She set his dinner before him, and went upstairs.
"Was that the master ?" asked Mrs.Morel.
"I've gave him his dinner," replied Mrs.Bower.
After he had sat with his arms on the table--he resented the fact that Mrs.Bower put no cloth on for him, and gave him a little plate, instead of a full-sized dinner-plate--he began to eat.

The fact that his wife was ill, that he had another boy, was nothing to him at that moment.
He was too tired; he wanted his dinner; he wanted to sit with his arms lying on the board; he did not like having Mrs.Bower about.