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Presently the cab-doors were thrust violently open, and if I had net held her back, she would have jumped out of the vehicle. "Look!" she cried, in great excitement. "There! There's Harry's name!" She pointed to a butcher's cart immediately in front of us, bearing, in large letters, the name of "E. Robinson." "We must stop," she went on. "He will tell us about Harry."
Yet it is more than doubtful if the lower orders have ever done anything for Mr. KEBLE HOWARD except open his cab-doors and bring his washing home on Saturday night. Otherwise he would not make his East End of London heroine talk an argot of which fifty per cent, is pure East Side Noo York.
Oaths, vociferations, and the slamming of cab-doors. The darkness was decorated by the pink of a silk skirt, the crimson of an opera-cloak vivid in the light of a carriage-lamp, with women's faces, necks, and hair. The women sprang gaily from hansoms and pushed through the swing-doors. It was Lubini's famous restaurant. Within the din was deafening. "What cheer, 'Ria! 'Ria's on the job,"
And I was now quite out of money; and with a big fire and the rent of my room, as well as my hunger to satisfy, I had scarcely a penny in the world. "I can hardly tell you all the shifts I was put to while I was making the diamonds. I have sold newspapers, held horses, opened cab-doors. For many weeks I addressed envelopes.
I talked with men poor, sodden creatures, whose greasy black coats were buttoned to their stubbly chins to hide the absence of collar and waistcoat who supported a wretched existence in the streets, between begging, stealing, opening cab-doors, and the like, in constant dread of police attention.
And I was now quite out of money; and with a big fire and the rent of my room, as well as my hunger to satisfy, I had scarcely a penny in the world. "I can hardly tell you all the shifts I was put to while I was making the diamonds. I have sold newspapers, held horses, opened cab-doors. For many weeks I addressed envelopes.
And this man who has the soul and the brains of a great artist is reduced to taking sixpences for opening cab-doors. 'Does it end there? 'No. It's a sad story, I'm afraid. He dies one night in the snow outside the restaurant, while the rich noodles are gorging themselves inside to the music of a band. Consumption.
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