She sprang in also, and the cab with its occupants glided away
out of my ken for ever.
Here and there stalwart, quiet policemen requested loiterers to move
on, and the loiterers obeyed and re-formed in groups behind them; here
and there a respectable woman pushed her way through the throng,
gathering up her skirts as she did so and glancing covertly at this
unaccustomed company out of the corners of her eyes.
While watching all these sights we lost touch of the Salvation Army
ladies, who wormed their way through the crowd as easily and quickly
as a snake does through undergrowth, and set out to find them. Big
drops began to fall, the thunder growled, and in a moment the
concourse commenced to melt. Five minutes later the rain was falling
fast and the streets had emptied. That night's market was at an end.
No farmer watches the weather more anxiously than do these painted
women in their muslins and gold-laced shoes.
Meanwhile, their night's work done, the Salvation Army ladies were
tramping through the wet back to Titchfield Street, for they do not
spend money on cabs, and the buses had ceased to run.
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