Yes, Annie ought to be quite interested in making a great deal of money quickly.
“Well, if it isn’t Annie Chapman!” she said with a bright smile.
The other woman was very small, barely five feet tall, but stoutly built, with pallid skin and wide blue eyes and beautiful teeth that Polly, herself, would have given much to be able to flash at a customer when she smiled. Annie’s dark brown hair was wavy and had probably been lustrous before her illness had struck. Her nose was too thick for beauty and at forty-five she was past her best years, but she was a steady little individual, meeting life quietly and trying to hold on in the face of overwhelming poverty, too little to eat, and an illness that sapped her strength and left her moving slowly when she was able to walk at all.
Annie Chapman smiled, genuinely pleased by the greeting. “Polly, how are you?”
“Oh, I’m good, Annie, I’m good. I’d be better if I ‘ad a gin or two, eh?”
The two women chuckled for a moment. Annie was not the drinker Polly was, but the other woman enjoyed her rum, when there was enough money to be spared for it, same as most other women walking these dismal streets.
“Say, Annie, ‘ow’s your ‘ealth been these past few weeks?”
The other woman’s eyes darkened. “Not good,” she said quietly, with a hoarse rasp in her voice. “It’s this rain and cold. Makes my lungs ache, so it’s hard to breathe.” She sounded like it hurt her to breathe.
“I’d imagine a good bit more money would ‘elp, eh? Maybe even enough to take you someplace warm and dry, right out o’ London?”