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"I'm fair ready for it, y'r gryce," was the reply, and now the lad's glance went eagerly towards the door, for the tension of labour was relaxed, and hunger was scraping hard at his vitals. "Well, sit down this breakfast isn't cold yet.... But, no, you'd better have a wash-up first, if you can wait," Stafford added, and rang a bell. "Wot, 'ere brekfist wiv y'r gryce 'ere?"
He saw the hunger in the lad's eyes as they swept over the breakfast-table, still heavy with uneaten breakfast bacon, nearly the whole of an omelette, and rolls, toast, marmalade and honey. "Wait a second," he said, as the boy turned toward the door. "Yes, y'r gryce." "Had your breakfast?" "I has me brekfist w'en I sells me pypers."
An' Lou paid rent for both of us wiv that, an' 'ad brekfist; an' sure enough the lydy come next dy an' took her off. She's in the opery now, an' she'll 'ave 'er brekfist reg'lar. I seed the lydy meself. Her picture 's on the 'oardings " Suddenly he stopped. "W'y, that's 'er that's 'er!" he said, pointing to the mantel-piece. Stafford followed the finger and the glance.
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