CHAPTER XVII.
Irish Kate.—Drink, heat, fleas, and French letters.—The
bricklayer afterwards.—I give luck.—The lost breast-pin.—
The cholera's victim.
One hot night in summer I slouched along one of the streets, and stopped in front of a woman who stood lolling against the door-post. I recollect her and my first sensations perfectly well, her white face, and dark hair hanging behind her in a net, her low dress, low in front,—showing a luscious neck and bust as white as her face. Her dress was of a very light colour, so her neck and face must have been white indeed to look so white by contrast. The street-door was close to a street-lamp, which shed a strong light on her face as it was turned upwards, and with her hand and arms folded behind her she lolled, her back against the doorpost.
