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Updated: May 21, 2025
Sitting thus enthroned in his shirt-sleeves, his greasy and unshaven red face irradiating a sort of low good-humour that was belied by the cold cunning of his little eyes, he fulfilled admirably the requirements of the role he played self-cast. "'Ere, you!" he hailed Amber brusquely. "You're a 'ell of a job-'unter, ain't you? Mister Abercrombie's been wytin' for you this hour gone.
"Oh, he's wytin' for you." She nodded, lifting a shrill voice. "Garge, O Garge! 'Ere's that Yankee." With a bare red elbow she indicated the further end of the room. "You'll find 'im down there," she said, her look not unkindly. Amber thanked her quietly and, extricating himself from the press round the bar, made his way in the direction indicated.
"My Friend has never forsaken me before," she said. She felt a hand press her hand, and she met the eyes of little Mrs. Love. "Yo're a mousey sort of kid," said Mrs. Love, "sittin' there as if you was in church. Shall we go 'ome? The rine's gettin' worse an' worse, an' it's no good wytin'. I'll see you 'ome."
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