Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mrs Whittaker’s army – speeches – dissention in the ranks – a thoroughly unexpected ally – you will be furious!
The toshers in the sunless courtyard were a dangerous looking bunch. Broken toothed and wild, insolence and criminality written into every facial line, visible in every movement. Some male, some female, they ranged in age from scrawny smirking children to grey-haired, hard-eyed oldsters. They reminded Mrs Whittaker of a Hogarth painting, for the men and women before her were a cut of London that literally had to look up to see the level of the gutter.
They were all perfectly clean, though. They had that in their favour. After a day in the sewers, the toshers were not the sort to cut corners when washing. Reeking of carbolic soap, there was not a square inch
