MANSON. I wonder whether they are anything alike.

ROBERT. That's wot I come to see! . . .

She 'ad 'er mother's nose when she was a biby--_and_ 'er eyes!
Gorstrike, she was the very spit--far as a biby could be! . . .

Swelp me Moses, if I find 'er anything like Bill's ole geezer, I'll
cut 'er throat!

MANSON. And if she's like her mother? What then?

ROBERT. Why, then . . . there's allus my own. I nearly did it
once.

MANSON [after a pause]. How did you come to lose her?

ROBERT [roughly]. Never you mind!

MANSON. How did you come to lose her?

ROBERT [sullenly]. Typhoid fever.

[MANSON notes the evasion with a glance. He helps ROBERT to more
tea, and waits for him to speak. ROBERT wriggles under his gaze,
and at last he says, reluctantly.]

Oh, it was my own fault, as I lost the kid!

MANSON. That was a sore loss, comrade.