Moss Rose

“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.