" The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. “Bit thick on the old man, isn’t it?” said Roddy, who had developed a bluff, straightforward style in the motor shop. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. It’s one of our conventional superstitions.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjExOC4xNDAuMTcgLSAyNi0wNi0yMDI0IDE0OjE2OjQ5IC0gNzU0Mzc0OTE1
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