9
Shaw
FREDDY
. Oh, very well: I’ll go, I’ll go. [
He opens his um-
brella and dashes off Strandwards, but comes into collision with
a flower girl, who is hurrying in for shelter, knocking her basket
out of her hands. A blinding flash of lightning, followed in-
stantly by a rattling peal of thunder, orchestrates the incident]
THE FLOWER GIRL
. Nah then, Freddy: look wh’ y’ gowin,
deah.
FREDDY
. Sorry [
he rushes off].
THE FLOWER GIRL
[
picking up her scattered flowers and
replacing them in the basket] There’s menners f ’ yer! Te-oo
banches o voylets trod into the mad. [
She sits down on the
plinth of the column, sorting her flowers, on the lady’s right. She
is not at all an attractive person. She is perhaps eighteen, per-
haps 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
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