Curious the life of drifting cabbies, all weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. He hummed:
Là ci darem la mano La la lala la la.
He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall.
No-one.
Meade’s timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements.
With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb.
A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her.
Open it.
And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame’s school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis’s. And Mr ?
He opened the letter within the newspaper.
A flower. I think it’s a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed then? What does she say?
Dear Henry, > > I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter.