ROBERT. Look 'ere, mate, don't you come tryin' it on with me! I don't care oo you are!
MANSON. I know that.
ROBERT. Then let me be, I tell yer! You tek all the taste out o' my sossingers.
MANSON. I should like to hear about her, comrade.
ROBERT. You cawn't bring 'er back. She's dead.
MANSON. What was her name?
ROBERT. Mary—same as the little gel's.
MANSON. I wonder whether they are anything alike.
ROBERT. That's wot I come to see! . . .
She 'ad 'er mother's nose when she was a biby—and 'er eyes!
Gorstrike, she was the very spit—far as a biby could be! . . .