Rose was, there could be no question, a daughter of the soil; good red blood ran through her stout veins.

Tess of the countryside, your laughing, chaffing, arms-akimbo dairymaid; no poor white product of the over-civilised cities.

Angelina felt that the satin and lace were wrong; she tore them off, searched in the heaped-up cupboard for poor neglected Annie No.

1, found her, tore from her her red woollen skirt and white blouse, stretched them about Rose's portly body.
"T'ank God for nice Wose, Amen," she said, but she meant, not God, but her friend.

He, her friend, had never sent her anything before, and now that Rose had come straight from him, she must have a great deal to tell her about him.