At any other time the Malebolge of her poor, obscene and profane soul would have been turned upon the questioner and deluged her with abuse. But it was now her cue to be conciliating.
“Oh, jest one of my Soph’s young uns as has been spending of the hevening and taking tea along of me. And I’m a-carrying of her home to her mammy,” she answered, quite civilly.
“I ain’t seen Soph since she come from the island. Where is she now?” inquired the younger woman.
“Got a room in Rose Street.”
“Bloomin’ Rose Street that one is. He-he! Where is Soph’s man?”
“W’ere he ought to be. W’ere I ’ope he’ll stay.”
“Sent up?”
“Yes.”
“Drinking?”
“Yes, and beating of his wife. Wish I’d caught him at it. Better not let me catch him when he comes out, either. There’ll be a foot race or a fun’al. More like the fun’al. And me sent furder up nor him, I reckon—for manslaughter it mought be, and serve him right. But, here! Let me pass. It’s arfter nine, and I want to get along with Soph’s kid, ’fear she’ll be oneasy ’bout her. ’Cause, yer see, she don’ know w’ere she is. I picked her up in the streets, and fetched her home to take tea ’long of me,” the ragpicker explained.