Often she wrote vague comments on matters with which she was not familiar, in an exercise-book, always eventually mislaid.

She would awake from dear and unspeakable dreams full of hope, and tell herself stories about herself, trying on various lives and deaths like clothes.

The result was never likely enough even to laugh at.
To-day she had watched magic dancing in a mackintosh, and she was at a loss.
There was a knock upon her door, and a voice: "Hi, cocky, could you oblige me with a loan of a few 'alfpence for the milkman.

I 'aven't a bean in me purse." "Nor have I," said Sarah Brown, opening the door.

"But I can pawn--" "Ow, come awf it, Cuffbut," said the fellow-lodger.