Out with it,
and don't spile a good mind.'
What I did and said that morning as I wandered through the streets of
London in that state of tearless despair and mad unnatural merriment,
one hour of which will age a man more than a decade of any woe that
can find a voice in lamentations, remains a blank in my memory.
I found myself at the corner of Essex Street, staring across the
Strand, which, even yet, had scarcely awoke into life. Presently I
felt my sleeve pulled, and heard the woman's voice.
'You didn't know as I was cluss behind you all the while, a-watchin'
your tantrums. Never spile a good mind, my young swell. Out with
t'other quid, an' then I'll tell you somethink about my pootty darter
as is on my mind.'
I gave her money, but got nothing from her save more incoherent lies
and self-contradictions about the time of the funeral.
'Point out the spot where she used to stand and beg. No, don't stand
on it yourself, but point it out.'
'This is the werry spot. She used to hold out her matches like this
'ere,--my darter used,--an' say texes out o' the Bible.
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