It was night-time, in the East End of London, and before him stood Margey, a little factory girl of fifteen.

He had seen her home after the bean-feast.

She lived in that gloomy tenement, a place not fit for swine.

His hand was going out to hers as he said good night.

She had put her lips up to be kissed, but he wasn't going to kiss her.
Somehow he was afraid of her.