Anna Street.

I soon found Number 32, a dirty, tumble-down, one-story hovel, the
blinds tied together with selvedges of red flannel, and a rickety bell
that gave a certain style to the door, though it had long ceased to
ring.

A knock brought a black-haired, beetle-browed person to the window.

"Does Mrs. Kennett live here?"

"No, she don't. I live here."

"Oh! then you are not Mrs. Kennett?"

"Wall, I ruther guess _not_!" This in a tone of such royal superiority
and disdain that I saw in an instant I had mistaken blue blood for red.

"I must have been misinformed, then. This is Number 32?"

"Can't yer see it on the door?"

"Yes," meekly. "I thought perhaps Anna Street had been numbered over."

"What made yer think Mis' Kennett lived here?"

"A little girl brought me her name written on a card,--Mrs. Kennett, 32
Anna Street."

"There!" triumphantly, "I might 'a knowed that woman 'd play some common