We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
from whenever we could possibly manage it. All this, of course, made dad dearer to us than ever. He never by word or sign took our part against her, and indeed I know he was very fond of her, but his gentle unspoken love wrapped itself around us and healed our little wounds almost before they hurt.
Saturday night was bath-night for us children. A round flat bath, like the lid of a cake tin only bigger, was put down in front of the kitchen fire and a mixture of cold and boiling water poured into it to a depth of about two inches. Then we three, who had been slowly undressing in preparation, stepped into it together and sat down, bottoms to the edge and toes together in the middle. Then the fun began: the thing was to see who had the blackest legs. It was an important point and was carefully and impartially considered. I think I generally won that round. That decided, we set to work and scrubbed and cleaned one leg each, getting it as clean and bright as we possibly could. The contrast between the black and the pink one in each of the three sets was a sheer delight to all of us. Then, of course, there followed a general cleaning up, the usual trouble with the ears and the soap in the eyes and so on, but we were soon dried and night-dressed and down in a row at mother's knee to say our prayers.
After we were in bed, I think poor mother had a little rest — the first she had had all day — but whether she allowed daddy to have any I do not know. I know he had to account for every penny he spent and I know he usually sat up writing far into the night, for most of the little money we had came from that mysterious writing.
We were living at that time at 37, St. Paul's Crescent, Camden Town, in North London. My mother always insisted that the address should be given as of Camden Square which she held to be much more respectable. It was not the place of my birth for that occurred on the other side of London, either at Blackheath or Lewisham I think. I cannot be expected to remember the details of that event. Our house in St. Paul's Crescent was the last one in the road, which terminated abruptly in a coal-yard belonging to the railway company. My little bedroom at the side of the house overlooked the yard. One night there was one of those curious and very unusual thunderstorms in which the lightning seems to stand still in the sky for a second or more. My parents had gone to an early performance of H. M.S. Pinafore at the Park Theatre, Camden Town (now, of course, a picture-house) . I woke in the
13