An' the duchesses an' the lydies 'ad sich gran' w'ite dresses.

They was jest bu'ful, bu'ful." "I'm Irish," she said, in answer to a question.

"My nyme's Eyethorne." "What ?" I asked.
"Eyethorne, sir; Eyethorne." "Spell it." "H-a-y-t-h-o-r-n-e, Eyethorne.' "Oh," I said, "Irish Cockney." "Yes, sir, London-born." She had lived happily at home till her father died, killed in an accident, when she had found herself on the world.

One brother was in the army, and the other brother, engaged in keeping a wife and eight children on twenty shillings a week and unsteady employment, could do nothing for her.

She had been out of London once in her life, to a place in Essex, twelve miles away, where she had picked fruit for three weeks: "An' I was as brown as a berry w'en I come back.