* * * * *
'What made you trick me like this? Where is the money I gave you for
the funeral?'
'That's werry true, about that money, an' where is it? The orkerdest
question about money allus is--"Where is it?" The money for that
funeral I 'ad, I won't deny that. The orkard question ain't that:
it's "Where is it?" But you see, arter I left your studero I sets on
that pore gal's bed a-cryin' fit to bust; then I goes out into
Clement's Alley, and I calls on Mrs. Mix--that's a werry dear friend
of mine, the mother o' seven child'n as are allus a-settin' on my
doorstep, an' she comes out of Yorkshire you must know, an' she's bin
a streaker in her day (for she was well off wonst was Mrs. Mix afore
she 'ad them seven dirty-nosed child'n as sets on her neighbours'
doorsteps)--an' she sez, sez she, "My pore Meg" (meanin' me), "I've
bin the mother o' fourteen beautiful clean-nosed child'n, an' I've
streaked an' buried seven on 'em, so I ought to know somethink about
corpuses, an' I tell you this corpse o' your darter's must be
streaked an' buried at wonst, for she died in a swownd.
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