"I've got to take out what they will blooming well give me at the yard.

I've got my missus and four kids at 'ome." The monstrous nature of that declaration of paternity seemed to strike the world dumb.

A silence reigned during which the flanks of the old horse, the steed of apocalyptic misery, smoked upwards in the light of the charitable gas-lamp.
The cabman grunted, then added in his mysterious whisper: "This ain't an easy world." Stevie's face had been twitching for some time, and at last his feelings burst out in their usual concise form.
"Bad! Bad!" His gaze remained fixed on the ribs of the horse, self-conscious and sombre, as though he were afraid to look about him at the badness of the world.

And his slenderness, his rosy lips and pale, clear complexion, gave him the aspect of a delicate boy, notwithstanding the fluffy growth of golden hair on his cheeks.

He pouted in a scared way like a child.
The cabman, short and broad, eyed him with his fierce little eyes that seemed to smart in a clear and corroding liquid.
"'Ard on 'osses, but dam' sight 'arder on poor chaps like me," he wheezed just audibly.
"Poor! Poor!" stammered out Stevie, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets with convulsive sympathy.