The rain subsides for a short while and the grey of the day begins to turn dark, to mark the ending of a long weary, dreary day. Mary Kelly makes her way down Leman Street, trying to make ends meet by eking out a living on the streets. Her old and worn burgundy frock reflects like pools of blood in the puddles on the cobblestone street; wet and glistening. It's a tough life, with a seemly endless exsistance of strife, worry, and fear.
Turning onto Commercial Street, she sees the Britannia Pub and begins to sing, "Only a violet I plucked from my mother's grave when a boy..." Thinking to herself, maybe I'll see my fancy man tonight. The rain begins again, and she dashes into the pub. Lamp lighters make their way to illuminate the streets and curse the retched wet weather, wishing it would end. An end is near, but not the one everyone expects...
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