"Wot's wrong, my dear?" Bindle enquired, regarding her with a puzzled expression. "Oo's been 'urting you?"
"I'm—I'm afraid," she sobbed.
"Afraid! There ain't nothink to be afraid of when Joe Bindle's about. Wot you afraid of?"
"I'm—I'm afraid to go home," sobbed the girl.
"Afraid to go 'ome," repeated Bindle. "Why?"
"M-m-m-m-mother."
"Wot's up with 'er? She ill?"
"She—she'll kill me."
"Ferocious ole bird," he muttered. Then to the girl, "'Ere, you didn't ought to be out at this time o' night, a young gal like you. Why, it's gettin' on for twelve. Wot's wrong with Ma?"
"She'll kill me. I darsen't go home." She looked up at Bindle, a pathetic figure, with twitching mouth and frightened eyes. Then, controlling her sobs, she told her story.