"
"'Ow dirty I am, bein' around the w'y I 'ave," the woman said, as she sat
down in a coffee-house, wiping the sleep and grime from the corners of
her eyes. "An' the sights I 'ave seen this d'y, an' I enjoyed it, though
it was lonesome by myself. An' the duchesses an' the lydies 'ad sich
gran' w'ite dresses. They was jest bu'ful, bu'ful."
"I'm Irish," she said, in answer to a question. "My nyme's Eyethorne."
"What?" I asked.
"Eyethorne, sir; Eyethorne."
"Spell it."
"H-a-y-t-h-o-r-n-e, Eyethorne.'
"Oh," I said, "Irish Cockney."
"Yes, sir, London-born."
She had lived happily at home till her father died, killed in an
accident, when she had found herself on the world. One brother was in
the army, and the other brother, engaged in keeping a wife and eight
children on twenty shillings a week and unsteady employment, could do
nothing for her. She had been out of London once in her life, to a place
in Essex, twelve miles away, where she had picked fruit for three weeks:
"An' I was as brown as a berry w'en I come back. You won't b'lieve it,
but I was."
The last place in which she had worked was a coffee-house, hours from
seven in the morning till eleven at night, and for which she had received
five shillings a week and her food.
Pages:
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143