The child—this “one of the Populace”—stared up at Sara, and shuffled herself aside a little, so as to give her more room. She was used to being made to give room to everybody. She knew that if a policeman chanced to see her, he would tell her to “move on.”
Sara clutched her little four-penny piece, and hesitated a few seconds. Then she spoke to her.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more.
“Ain't I jist!” she said, in a hoarse voice. “Jist ain't I!”
“Haven't you had any dinner?” said Sara.
“No dinner,” more hoarsely still and with more shuffling, “nor yet no bre'fast—nor yet no supper—nor nothin'.”
“Since when?” asked Sara.
“Dun'no. Never got nothin' to-day—nowhere. I've axed and axed.”
Just to look at her made Sara more hungry and faint. But those queer little thoughts were at work in her brain, and she was talking to herself though she was sick at heart.