&ldquo;You look as if you was going to cut your throat.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Funny, Min, I was thinking of it.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Got any beer or gin &mdash; a mouthful of the real &lsquo;knock me down&rsquo;?&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;No, I haven&rsquo;t.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Oh, ain&rsquo;t it shocking. Any luck for the pantomime?&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;No &mdash; I&rsquo;m not sure&mdash;&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve had an offer for one dance and the chorus &mdash; but only twenty-five shillings.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t get that, I don&rsquo;t think. Well, what did you come in here for? I&rsquo;m thinking of suicide, I tell you; a pity you disturbed me. Oh, I&rsquo;m tired.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Who isn&rsquo;t?&rdquo;<br />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.