She was obviously a woman of good mentality. Her speech was smooth, and her accent had a touch of distinction. I often look for my friend of the plush coat in or around Shaftesbury Avenue when I revisit the scenes of my adventures, but I have never caught a glimpse of her. Nor is this strange. Like moves to like, outcast gravitates to outcast, and until once more I strip myself of my comfortable home, and step across the boundary which divides security from starvation, I shall not look on her again.

We crossed Waterloo Bridge and turned towards the New Cut. I always feel a curious spiritual depression when I am on the south side of the river. Progress a little farther and the raucous vulgarity of Brixton, the muffled seriousness of Streatham, make their own atmosphere, but the immediate effect when you cross any of the bridges is as potent as anything you can experience in Bethnal Green or in Haggerston, that place of the distressed.