The man sighed. Long ago he had given up contending with his imperious wife, but sometimes as now, he walked along morosely, and his thoughts were best known to himself.
"I'd save 'im from it if I could," he muttered to himself, "but I've thought that 'afore, and it ain't no use. Still I shan't forgit—though I ain't no good at anythink now."
They had now reached London Bridge, and soon after turned down one of the narrow streets leading from the main thoroughfare, and again under a long low archway running beneath the first floor rooms of one of the houses, and so emerged into a court squalid and forlorn, which contained the house they called home.
Just as they were turning in at the door a crippled child of some thirteen or fourteen years came down the stairs to meet them. She silently held out her arms for little Dickie, and without vouchsafing more than one dark look at the woman's face, and then another hopeless one at her little brother's, she slowly ascended again, step by step, till weary and panting she laid him down on an old mattress in the corner of the crowded room where she lived.
"Dickie," she moaned, burying her face in his neck, where the soft waves of his golden-brown hair felt like silk against it, "Dickie, are they goin' to kill you right out? Dickie——!"
