"
The twanging of the guitar was now accompanied by Beppe's powerful
baritone voice, whilst the others joined in the chorus:
"_Noi, profughi D'Italia...._"
I walked down the stairs.
"Good-bye, Comrades!"
"Good-bye, a rivederci!" and after giving one last look at the familiar
scene, I walked out.
As I made my way down the yard leading to the street, I encountered Mrs.
Wattles at the back door of her shop. She had now reached the maudlin
stage of intoxication. Her eyes were bleary, her mouth tremulous, her
complexion bloated and inflamed. There was something indefinite in her
appearance, suggesting the idea that her face had been boiled, and that
the features had run, losing all sharpness of outline and expression. She
fixed me with her fishy eye, and dabbing her face with the corner of her
apron began to blubber.
"S'elp me Gawd, miss," she began, "I never thought as I should come to
this! To have them narks under my very roof, abrazenin' it out! I always
knew as there was something wrong abart pore Mr. Janly, and many's the
time I've said to 'im, 'Mr. Janly, sir,' I've said, 'do take a little
something, yer look so pale.' But 'e always answered, 'No, Mrs. Wattles,
no; you've been a mother to me, Mrs. Wattles, and I know you're right, but
I can't do it. 'Ere's for 'alf a pint to drink my health, but I can't do
it.' And I dare say as it were them temp'rance scrupils like as brought
'im to 'is end.
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