Yes; that night I was mad!
I could not walk fatigue into my restless limbs. Morning broke in
curdling billows of fire over the east of London--which even at this
early hour was slowly growing hazy with smoke. I found myself in
Primrose Court, looking at that squalid door, those squalid windows.
I knocked at the door. No answer came to my summons, and I knocked
again and again. Then a window opened above my head, and I heard the
well-known voice of the woman exclaiming,
'Who's that? Poll Onion's out to-night, and the rooms are emp'y 'cept
mine. Why, God bless me, man, is it you?'
'Hag! that was not your daughter.'
She slammed the window down.
'Let me in, or I will break the door.'
The window was opened again.
'Lucky as I didn't leave the front door open to-night, as I mostly
do. What do you want to skear a pore woman for?' she bawled. 'Go
away, else I'll call up the people in Great Queen Street.'
'Mrs. Gudgeon, all I want to do is to ask you a question.'
'Ah, but that's what you jis' _won't_ do, my fine gentleman.
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