"And where d'you think you're going to, you painted hussy*; (let that muck scrubbed off your face and take those glad rags off. I'm not having1 any of my daughters roaming the streets at this time of night and getting themselves into trouble. It's, time you were staying in the house in the evenings." Bill Hogan's voice was raised to its fullest pitch, and, as he spat out the words he made a gesture as though he would smash his big, gnarled fist into the face of the girl who stood there with him in the dirty, untidy kitchen-living room of the working-class flat. Diana faced her irate father without flinching, although she kept a wary eye on that fist, ready to leap back out of the way if it swung round in her direction. She hated this drunken sot who had brought her into the world; hated him as much as she hated the whole of her surroundings and the rest of her family.
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