Page:The writings in prose and verse of Rudyard Kipling (IA cu31924057346631).pdf/65

 Who was the speaker? I turned to see&mdash;
 * A sharp little saucy face,

No whit abashed, gazing at me With bead-eyes, curiously,
 * With a petulant child's grimace,

As I shifted, moving her feet
 * From the chair where they'd taken root,
 * For the time at least; then again

I listened. Fast and fleet
 * She poured out the queer little words to her friend&mdash;
 * (A sort of overgrown brute).
 * I heard it out to the end&mdash;
 * A story of pain.
 * Here you have it, in fine
 * (Her words, not mine):
 * "Tried for luck in London&mdash;
 * Voilà tout!
 * Failed, lost money, undone;
 * Took to the streets for a life.
 * Entre nous,
 * It's a terrible uphill strife,
 * Like all professions&mdash;too filled.
 * And now I'm in lodgings hard by,
 * Au quatrième, up in the sky.
 * Visit me by and by,

They're furnished, but oh&mdash;so cold,
 * So cold!"
 * There the queer little voice was stilled;
 * She moved to a further chair
 * And left me sitting there

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