The man was not silent. “Who do you think ye air, ye blawdy bitch! Treating me like some bloomin’ pincushion, are ye? Damn blawsted demon!” ″ He paraded straight toward Skye, who stood waiting, while Victoria resolutely kept her bow drawn. He spotted Skye, exhaled, straightened himself up, and marched forward. “Ye be the owner o’ this savage? Ye bloomin’ spawn of the devil, what do ye want of me, stealing me from my morning prayer, eh?” The stubble-jawed skinny wretch was plainly furious. And that flood of words, so familiar. Could it be? “East End, is it?” Skye asked. “East End, Cheapside, how the’ell did ye know that, eh? And stop this savage from sticking an arrer into me arse, eh?” “I’m an East Ender,” Skye said. “It makes sense, that it does,” the skinny fellow said. “Do what ye will then, get out the’ammer and knock me over the noggin. There’s not a tuppence in me britches, so the joke’s on ye, ye scum.” Skye started laughing. “East End, all right.
