Take Pity Upon Youth [antikvár]

chapter i On a fine day in March, which after a long winter, both cold and wet, seemed like the first day of spring, a young woman in widow's weeds let herself out of the side door of a bookshop in Oxford Street, and raised her face with delight to the sun which poured down upon it. Close to the kerb, in the traffic-congested thoroughfare, a man trundled a flower barrel, and on Margery's face there was the same delight as she gazed at a massed array of daffodils and many-coloured tulips. She sniffed—inelegantly— and the man paused. "Daffies, lydy? Grown in Kent, they is—pulled 'em myself this morning," he said hopefully. "They're lovely. How much?" "Sixpence a bunch by rights; but seeing that you . . . I'll make it fourpence to you, lydy." This was accompanied by a glance of commiseration, as Margery himted beneath layers of serge and crepe and brought forth her purse. Fingers in tight, black gloves produced a silver coin, and two pennies. "Thank you. I'll take two bimches, please." They were handed to her with a strip of crinkly thin paper wrapped around the wet stems, and the barrow-man said: