Door Handle.
A nice ale to soften the cold sounds inviting but you have barely made a few pence today. Your boss will expect you to give him your takings from which he'll pay you a pittance at the end of the week. Besides, you must guard your barrow from the thieving street urchins or you'll end up paying for any losses, too.
The farmer sniffs. "Wehh. Suit yerself, lad." He pulls his hat over his ears and splashes through the puddles towards the Blacksmith's Arms, the coaching inn at the end of the road.
The fruit lies there on the barrow beside you, tempting your churning stomach. But every unsold piece must be returned and accounted for. Having not even sold enough apples to buy a pie, the journey to your home village will be a grim prospect this evening.
A stage coach passes by, its passengers dry inside. Long gone are the childhood days when the guard would haul you up beside him and take you part of the way home.
A loud crash and the tinkling of broken glass brings your attention to the inn.
The doors to the great building are flung open and three men drag a struggling figure outside.
It looks like a woman but her clothing is unlike anything you have ever seen. Her legs are clad in a garment of dark blue, so tight that they resemble stockings. Her arms are bare, and her blouse - if it could be called such - is so short that her navel can be seen.
Never have you seen a woman dress so bizarrely in public - the vulgar sight is shocking. Even in your village, the women retain a level of dignity. More drinkers pour out onto the street, jeering and laughing. It's difficult to know whether to pity her or not.
The farmer sniffs. "Wehh. Suit yerself, lad." He pulls his hat over his ears and splashes through the puddles towards the Blacksmith's Arms, the coaching inn at the end of the road.
The fruit lies there on the barrow beside you, tempting your churning stomach. But every unsold piece must be returned and accounted for. Having not even sold enough apples to buy a pie, the journey to your home village will be a grim prospect this evening.
A stage coach passes by, its passengers dry inside. Long gone are the childhood days when the guard would haul you up beside him and take you part of the way home.
A loud crash and the tinkling of broken glass brings your attention to the inn.
The doors to the great building are flung open and three men drag a struggling figure outside.
It looks like a woman but her clothing is unlike anything you have ever seen. Her legs are clad in a garment of dark blue, so tight that they resemble stockings. Her arms are bare, and her blouse - if it could be called such - is so short that her navel can be seen.
Never have you seen a woman dress so bizarrely in public - the vulgar sight is shocking. Even in your village, the women retain a level of dignity. More drinkers pour out onto the street, jeering and laughing. It's difficult to know whether to pity her or not.