Peggy drew a long breath. She had rehearsed it too often to be at a loss.
"Please 'm, I can scrub floors, and clean grates, and make beds, and clean winders, and sweep and dust, and mind babies, and cook 'taties and tripe, and mutton chops, and steak, and red herrings, and make tea and gruel, and hot drinks of gin and water, and nurse cripples, and run messages, and wash clothes, and—"
"That will do. Your name?"
"Margaret Perkins, please 'm."
"Your age?"
"Thirteen 'm."
Another grave-faced woman came forward.
"There's a lady waiting for a girl," she said, in a murmur. "She doesn't mind training them, she says. Shall I let her see her?"
Peggy's checks got crimson with excitement. When she was ushered into a little back room, and was confronted by a tall melancholy woman in black, she felt that this was a crisis in her life.
"Is this a respectable girl, Miss Shipley?"