“The young woman,” said our Reporter, taking up the cue, and slipping sixpence into the woman’s hand—(when do our poor refuse alms?)—“the young woman in the third-floor back—is she at home?”
“Goodness only knows,” replied the woman, who, having accepted the money, felt that she must earn it; “she’s that quiet, is Blanche, that there’s no telling when she’s in or when she’s out.”
“Let me see,” said our Reporter, pretending to consider, “how long has Blanche lived in the house?”
“About three months, I should say. Pretty, ain’t she?”
“Very. Young, too, to be the mother of little Fanny here.”
“Lord love you!” exclaimed the woman; “little Fanny’s no relation of her’n. She’s a single woman is Blanche. I thought you was a friend.”
“So I am. But this is the first time I’ve been here to see her.”
“You’re the first I’ve ever seen come after her.”
“She has not many friends, then?”
“Not one that I know of.”