THE FLOWER GIRL. Nah then, Freddy: look wh' y' gowin, deah.

FREDDY. Sorry [he rushes off].

THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up her scattered flowers and replacing
them in the basket] There's menners f' yer! Te-oo banches o
voylets trod into the mad. [She sits down on the plinth of the
column, sorting her flowers, on the lady's right. She is not at
all an attractive person. She is perhaps eighteen, perhaps
twenty, hardly older. She wears a little sailor hat of black
straw that has long been exposed to the dust and soot of London
and has seldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needs washing
rather badly: its mousy color can hardly be natural. She wears a
shoddy black coat that reaches nearly to her knees and is shaped
to her waist. She has a brown skirt with a coarse apron. Her
boots are much the worse for wear. She is no doubt as clean as
she can afford to be; but compared to the ladies she is very
dirty. Her features are no worse than theirs; but their condition
leaves something to be desired; and she needs the services of a
dentist].

THE MOTHER. How do you know that my son's name is Freddy, pray?

THE FLOWER GIRL. Ow, eez ye-ooa san, is e? Wal, fewd dan y'
de-ooty bawmz a mather should, eed now bettern to spawl a pore
gel's flahrzn than ran awy atbaht pyin. Will ye-oo py me f'them?
[Here, with apologies, this desperate attempt to represent her
dialect without a phonetic alphabet must be abandoned as
unintelligible outside London.]