Without sentiment, glorification, or preaching, but with complete detachment, Morrison describes the lives of charwomen, pimps, and workers drifting down to destruction; their shabby attempts to retain respectability; and the perpetual danger of slipping into a life of crime for those living in the mean streets of London's East End.
full engagement had been made. And love-making in this street is a dreary thing, when one thinks of love-making in other places. It begins--and it ends--too soon.
Nobody from this street goes to the theatre. That would mean a long journey, and it would cost money which might buy bread and beer and boots. For those, too, who wear black Sunday suits it would be sinful. Nobody reads poetry or romance. The very words are foreign. A Sunday paper in some few houses provides such reading as this street is disposed to achieve. Now and again a penny novel has been found among the private treasures of a growing daughter, and has been wrathfully confiscated. For the air of this street is unfavorable to the ideal.
Round the corner there are a baker's, a chandler's and a beer-shop. They are not included in the view from any of the rectangular holes; but they are well known to every denizen; and the chandler goes to church on Sunday and pays for his seat. At the opposite end, turnings lead to streets less rig
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