“You look as if you was going to cut your throat.”
“Funny, Min, I was thinking of it.”
“Got any beer or gin — a mouthful of the real ‘knock me down’?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Oh, ain’t it shocking. Any luck for the pantomime?”
“No — I’m not sure—”
“I’ve had an offer for one dance and the chorus — but only twenty-five shillings.”
“I can’t get that, I don’t think. Well, what did you come in here for? I’m thinking of suicide, I tell you; a pity you disturbed me. Oh, I’m tired.”
“Who isn’t?”
Minnie Palmer flopped on to the broken stool inside the dressing-room underneath the stage; her dirty white muslin skirts and the tarnished spangles on her tattered bodice were crudely fashioned to represent the petals and calyx of a lily, a torn wig was pulled over her head, her small features were heavily outlined in cheap greasepaint.
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