"Ain't no 'arm in 'IM," said Glad. "'E's one o' the friendly ones. 'E
give me a suvrink. Look wot I've got," hopping about as she showed her
parcels.

"You need not be afraid of me," Antony Dart said. He paused a second,
staring at her, and suddenly added, "Poor little wretch!"

Her look was so scared and uncertain a thing that he walked away from
her and threw the sack of coal on the hearth. A small grate with broken
bars hung loosely in the fireplace, a battered tin kettle tilted
drunkenly near it. A mattress, from the holes in whose ticking straw
bulged, lay on the floor in a corner, with some old sacks thrown over
it. Glad had, without doubt, borrowed her shoulder covering from the
collection. The garret was as cold as the grave, and almost as dark;
the fog hung in it thickly. There were crevices enough through which it
could penetrate.

Antony Dart knelt down on the hearth and drew matches from his pocket.

"We ought to have brought some paper," he said.

Glad ran forward.

"Wot a gent ye are!" she cried. "Y' ain't never goin' to light it?"

"Yes."

She ran back to the rickety table and collected the scraps of paper
which had held her purchases. They were small, but useful.