"Don't you?" "No, mother keeps me." "What is your father?" "Got none, he's dead three months back,—mother works, and keeps us.—she is a charwoman, and goes out on odd jobs." "Don't you work?" "Not now," said she in a confused way, "mother does not want me to, I takes care of the others." "What others?" "The young ones." "How many?" "Two,—one's a boy, and one's a gal." "How old?" "Sister's about six, and brother's nearly eight,—but what do you ask me all this for?" "Only for amusement,—then you are in mourning for your father?" "Yes, it's shabby, ain't it?—I wish I could have nice clothes, I've got nice boots,—ain't they?"—c*****g up one leg, "a lady gived em me when father died,—they are my best."
"Are you often in the Strand?" "When I gets out I likes walking in it, and looking at the sh
