Cliffords, who was an expert boxer, invited me into his room on my
next visit to tell him the whole story and my shares went up.

By the end of July all the girls--about fifty-two--stayed with me
after their work and none of them went to the "Peggy Bedford."

The Whitechapel murders took place close to the factory about that
time, and the girls and I visited what the journalists call "the
scene of the tragedy." It was strange watching crowds of people
collected daily to see nothing but an archway.

I took my girls for an annual treat to the country every summer,
starting at eight in the morning and getting back to London at
midnight. We drove in three large wagonettes behind four horses,
accompanied by a brass band. On one occasion I was asked if the
day could be spent at Caterham, because there were barracks there.
I thought it a dreary place and strayed away by myself, but Phoebe
and her friends enjoyed glueing their noses to the rails and
watching the soldiers drill. I do not know how the controversy
arose, but when I joined them I heard Phoebe shout through the
railings that some one was a "bloody fish!" I warned her that I
should leave Cliffords for ever, if she went on provoking rows and
using such violent language, and this threat upset her; for a
short time she was on her best behaviour, but I confess I find the
poor just as uninfluenceable and ungrateful as the rich, and I
often wonder what became of Phoebe Whitman.

At the end of July I told the girls that I had to leave them, as I
was going back to my home in Scotland.