"More'n four," she said. "Just old enough to run a arrand. It was crool.
Hit me out, I can tell you. That kid was all I had. Apple o' my eye, in
a manner of speakin'. When it was gone there wasn't much encouragement,
was there? The Favver from the Mission came jawin' as 'ow Jesus 'ad
taken 'im to 'Imself. Rot! When they put 'im down in old Bow I didn't
care no more for nothin'. Monse and monse I walked about night and day,
and the bleedin' coppers was allus on to me. They got their own way at
last. I took the pneumonier and was laid up at the London. And when I
got out I didn't go back to the fact'ry neither."
"What did you do?" I asked.
The woman laughed--bitterly, terribly.
"Do? Don't you _know_?"