well-nigh gone. An indifference almost amounting to vacancy was there
now, and, except that she sang, you might almost have fancied her a
corpse. In her voice, also, there had once been beauty and feeling, and
here again the traces were small indeed. From time to time, she was
stopped by fits of coughing, when an ill-favoured hunchback, who
accompanied her on a tambourine, swore and scowled at her. She sang a
song of sentiment, with a refrain about

'Love and truth,
And joys of youth--'

on which the melody dwelt and quavered as if in mockery. As she sang, a
sailor came down the street. His collar was very large, his trousers
were very wide, his hat hung on the back of his head more as an
ornament than for shelter; and he had one of the roughest faces and the
gentlest hearts that ever went together since Beauty was entertained by
the Beast. His hands were in his pockets, where he could feel one
shilling and a penny, all the spare cash that remained to him after a
friendly stroll through the town. When he saw the street singer, he
stopped, pulled off his hat, and scratched his head, as was his custom
when he was puzzled or interested.

"'It's no good keeping an odd penny,' he said to himself; 'poor thing,
she looks bad enough!' And, bringing the penny to the surface out of
the depths of his pocket, he gave it to the woman. The hunchback came
forward to take it, but the sailor passed him with a shove of his
elbow, and gave it to the singer, who handed it over to her companion
without moving a feature, and went on with her song.

"'I'd like to break every bone in your ugly body,' muttered the sailor,