About ten o'clock
And again the childish trebles would ring on the tainted air : Green gravel , green gravel , Your true love is dead ; I send you a message To turn round your head . They are ragged and dirty , true children of the gutter , but Romance , with the cloudy hair and starry eyes , holds them captive for a few merciful years . Their parents loll against the walls , or squat on the kerbstone , devouring with infinite relish petty scandals about their neighbours , or shaking with laughter at some spicy yarn . About ten o'clock the children are driven indoors with threats and blows , and put to bed . By eleven the street is quiet , and only gives a last flicker of life when a drunken man comes swearing down the street , full of beer , and offering to fight anyone for the pleasure of the thing . By twelve the street is dead , and the tread of the policeman echoes with a forlorn sound as if he were walking through a cemetery . As Mrs Yabsley leaned over the gate , Mrs Swadling caught sight of her , and , throwing her apron over her head , crossed the street , bent on gossip .