A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Thank him, not me, man. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. But Jack speedily burst it open with the iron bar. Doctors constantly admonished and offered weak consolation that most would have been hurt much worse from the type of fall he took.
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