We think we get a kind of vague apprehension of what London means from the top of a 'bus better than anywhere else.

They kick me in the face, beat me with the baton, whip me in me balls, beat me with a cat o’ nine like them name buckra massa […]

The stories did not seem to me to touch life. They were plainly intended to have a bracing moral effect, and perhaps had this result for the people at whom they were aimed. They left me with the impression of a well-delivered stereopticon lecture, with characters about as life-like as the shadows on the screen, and whisking on and off, at the mercy of the operator.

She feels guilty for pampering him, and salves her conscience by bossily ordering him to go and fetch the clothes from the line[.]