She knew the truth now, and felt no desire to read what was written there--some lie, she supposed--and dropped it on the floor.
Suddenly she felt old and lonely, and wrapping a shawl round her shoulders, went out to her seat on the veranda.

It was near eleven, and the street was humming with life.

The sober and thrifty were trudging home with their loads of provisions; gossips were gathered at intervals; sudden jests were bandied, conversations were shouted across the width of the street, for it was Saturday night, and innumerable pints of beer had put Cardigan Street in a good humour.

The doors were opened, and the eye travelled straight into the front rooms lit with a kerosene lamp or a candle.

Under the veranda at the corner the Push was gathered, the successors of Chook and Jonah, young and vicious, for the larrikin never grows old.
She looked on the familiar scenes that had been a part of her life since she could remember.