It's cold.
It's dark.
There's no food to be had.
Whatever addle-brained dolt who decided to coin the phrase "to hold you over" when talking about a small amount of food that one eats to get by needs to see us now.
There is no such thing as "holding me over". You are hungry. You are always hungry. And there's nothing you can do about it.
"M'sieur? Please, please, good m'sieur? A few francs? Any spare coins?"
Not an uncommon plea, is this which falls with ease and desperation from my wind-chapped lips. I'm sure I look the part of the beggar-- my body smeared with dirt, my skirt torn and tattered, my hair matted and filthy against my head, protected only by the threadbare cap I wore, my chemise soiled and beyond repair, offering little warmth.
"M'sieur?"
And the rich ones pass us by, we beggars who find joy in a simple crust of bread that might 'hold us over'.
But we are never fully fed. And like as not, we won't be.
Like as not, we will die hungry, in such squalor and shame that those who pass us without a second thought could never have dreamed.