You won't fight--that's the worst of you; that's what makes all of us _sick_ when we come down to talk to you.

You won't spare twopence halfpenny a week from boozing--not you!--to subscribe to a union, and take the first little step towards filling your stomachs and holding your heads up as free men.

What's the good of your grumbling?
I suppose you'll go on like that--grumbling and starving and cringing--and talking big of the things you could do if you would:--and all the time not one honest effort--not one!--to better yourselves, to pull the yoke off your necks! By the Lord! I tell you it's a _damned_ sort of business talking to fellows like you!" Marcella started as he flung the words out with a bitter, nay, a brutal, emphasis.

The smooth-faced minister coughed loudly with a sudden movement, half got up to remonstrate, and then thought better of it.
Mrs.Boyce for the first time showed some animation under her veil.

Her eyes followed the speaker with a quick attention.
As for the men, as they turned clumsily to stare at, to laugh, or talk to each other, Marcella could hardly make out whether they were angered or fascinated.