My hair is tangled, and has fallen before my face. I regard her through it.
''I wish I were dead,'' I say.
''Oh, now,'' she answers, rising. ''What kind of talk is that?''
''I wish you were dead, then.''
She shakes her head, still smiles. ''Wild words, dear girl!'' She sniffs. There has come, from the kitchen, a terrible odour. ''Smell that? That''s Mr Ibbs, a-cooking up our breakfasts. Let''s see who wishes she was dead, now, that''s got a plate of bloaters before her!''◎◎
She rubs her hands again. Her hands are red, but the sagging flesh upon her arms has the hue and polish of ivory. She has slept in her chemise and petticoat; now she hooks on a pair of stays, climbs into her taffeta gown, then comes to dip her comb in water and brush her hair. ''Tra la, hee hee,'' she sings brokenly, as she
does it. I keep my own tangled hair before my eyes, and watch her. Her naked feet are cracked, and bulge at the toe. Her legs are almost hairless. When she bends to her stockings, she groans. Her thighs are fat and permanently marked by the pinch of her garters.
''There, now,'' she says, when she is dressed. A baby has started crying. ''That will set my others all off. Come down, dear girl—will you?—while I give ''em their pap.''
''Come down?'' I say. I must go down, if I am to es