ere looking for her, and seemed likely to just about kill her; but would never find their way to the Borough, she swore it. As for the gentleman that had started her troubles all off, by saying he loved her—well, he had a wife and a kiddie of his own, and had given her up as ruined, and washed his hands.—As gentlemen, of course, will do.
''Which, in a line like mine, you say thank heavens for!'' She smiles, almost winks. ''This lady had money. I took her, and put her upstairs. Perhaps I oughtn''t to have done it. Mr Ibbs did say I oughtn''t to. For I had five or six babies in the house already, and was worn out and fretful—more fretful, through having just borne a little infant of my own, that had died—'' Here her look changes, and she waves a hand before her eyes. ''I won''t talk of that, however. I won''t talk of that.''
She swallows and looks about her for a moment, as if in search of the fallen threads of her story. Then she seems to find them. The confusion passes from her face, she catches my eye again, then gestures upwards. I glance, with her, at the ceiling. It is a dirty yellow, marked grey with the smoke of lamps.
''Up there we put her,'' she says, ''in Gentleman''s room. And all day long I would sit beside her and hold her hand, and every night I would hear her turning in her bed, and crying. Nearly broke your
heart. She had no more harm in her than milk does. I supposed she might die. Mr Ibbs supposed it. I think even she supposed it, for she was meant to go another two months, and anyone could see that she wouldn''t have the strength to go half that time. But maybe the baby knew it, too—they do know, sometimes. For we only have her here a week, before her water busts and it starts coming. Takes a day and a night. Means to come, all right! Even so, it''s a shrimp of a thing, but the lady—being so poorly already—is quite made rags of. Then she hears her baby cry, and picks up her head from her pillow. "What''s that, Mrs Sucksby?" she says. "That''s your baby, my dear!" I tell her. "My baby?" says she. "Is my baby a boy, or a girl?" "It''s a girl," I say. And when she hears that she cries out with all her lungs: "Then God help her! For the world is cruel to girls. I wish she had died, and me with her!''"