She is not at all a romantic figure. She is perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty, hardly older. She wears a little sailor hat of black straw that has long been exposed to the dust and soot of London and has seldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needs washing rather badly: its mousy color can hardly be natural. She wears a shoddy black coat that reaches nearly to her knees and is shaped to her waist. She has a brown skirt with a coarse apron. Her boots are much the worse for wear. She is no doubt as clean as she can afford to be; but compared to the ladies she is very dirty.
"Beg pardon, miss."
"Garn! Don’t you know your own daughter?"
¨What call would a woman with that strength in her have to die of influenza? What become of her new straw hat that should have come to me? Somebody pinched it; and what I say is, them as pinched it done her in.¨
"Oh, lots of things. What about your old idea of a florist´s shop? Pickering could set you up in one: he has lots of money...Why six months ago you would have though it the millennium to have a flower shop of your own. Come, youll be all right."
¨What else am I to do?¨
"I want a little kindness. I know I’m a common ignorant girl, and you a book-learned gentleman; but I’m not dirt under your feet."