The
skirt on the inside was a dim green, and little was left of the cotton
velvet jacket but the cotton. A girl of sixteen walking sturdily, like a
little man, crossed the road, her left hand thrust deep into the pocket of
her red cashmere dress. She wore on her shoulders a strip of beaded
mantle; her hair was plaited and tied with a red ribbon. Corpulent women
passed, their eyes liquid with invitation; and the huge bar-loafer, the
man of fifty, the hooked nose and the waxed moustache, stood at the door
of a restaurant, passing the women in review.
A true London of the water's edge--a London of theatres, music-halls,
wine-shops, public-houses--the walls painted various colours, nailed over
with huge gold lettering; the pale air woven with delicate wire, a
gossamer web underneath which the crowd moved like lazy flies, one half
watching the perforated spire of St. Mary's, and all the City spires
behind it now growing cold in the east, the other half seeing the spire of
St. Martin's above the chimney-pots aloft in a sky of cream pink. Stalwart
policemen urged along groups of slattern boys and girls; and after vulgar
remonstrance these took the hint and disappeared down strange passages.
Suddenly Esther came face to face with a woman whom she recognised as
Margaret Gale.
"What, is it you, Margaret?"
"Yes, it is me all right.
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