` The Marsh folk think so , ' said Hobden . ' I had a hem o ' trouble to get my woman to leave it . ' ` Where did she come out of ? I 've forgot , Ralph . ' ` Dymchurch under the Wall , ' Hobden answered , a potato in his hand . ` Then she 'd be a Pett -- or a Whitgift , would she ? ' ` Whitgift . ' Hobden broke open the potato and ate it with the curious neatness of men who make most of their meals in the blowy open . ` She growed to be quite reasonable-like after livin ' in the Weald awhile , but our first twenty year or two she was odd-fashioned , no bounds . And she was a won ` erful hand with bees . ' He cut away a little piece of potato and threw it out to the door . ` Ah ! I 've heard say the Whitgifts could see further through a millstone than most , ' said Shoesmith . ` Did she , now ? ' ` She was honest-innocent of any nigromancin ' , ' said Hobden . ` Only she 'd read signs and sinnifications out o ' birds flyin ' , stars fallin ' , bees hivin ' , and such . An , she 'd lie awake -- listenin ' for calls , she said . ' ` That do n't prove naught , ' said Tom . ` All Marsh folk has been smugglers since time everlastin ' . ` Twould be in her blood to listen out o ' nights . '
` Nature-ally , ' old XXXXX replied , smiling . '
Dymchurch Hobden Tom Weald blowy hivin livin nights nigromancin sinnifications