Chatterbox: Inkwell

Story I'm working on. Suggestions? Help? Critique? Disgust? All are welcome :D. Ideas for titles are also welcomed :D I have no clue what to call it...

My story is not an unusual one; compared to the hundreds of beggar children that littered the streets of London in my time. The only thing unusual about mine is that I survived. The chances of that happening are one in a million - surviving the way I had, at least.             I was born Clementine von Trapp, a horribly uppity and stuffy sounding name. When my mother ran off, my father had no further use of me. So, at five, I learned to fend for myself on the harsh and unforgiving streets of London, shedding my noble name. I swapped it for something much more appropriate; Eulalie. Eulalie was the name of my older sister that I had always envied, and I named myself after her in the hopes that I could aspire to be as great as her.  The name stuck, and soon I could hardly remember being called anything else.             My “companions” were called Jo and Oliver, both of noble birth and self-named as I was. Jo had originally been called Josephina de Swart, and Oliver won’t even say what his true name is.             “It’s so horribly royal sounding,” he would say with scorn, scrunching his freckled ski-jump nose, “I can’t even bear to think of it!”            The reason that we three came to be friends was the circumstances of our birth. No one wanted to hang around begging with royalty, it would make them look like scum in comparison. That was the reasoning behind it at least. I’m not at all proud of where I came from. My father was a prince, and took a fancy to the shoemaker’s daughter. Five years after I was born, my mother ran away with a minstrel, and my father, in fear of the scandal, tossed me out in street without a second thought. Jo and Oliver’s stories are about the same.            I would have much preferred to be the humble child of a cooper and a maid, such as Rose, who frequented the corner across from ours, was. It would be a nice change from the disdain that people glared at us with. It makes you feel awfully small and insignificant to have a prince for a father, yet rags for clothes.            In a way, I should have expected that day that they drove us away from our corner. It had to happen eventually, and maybe it was for the better. Jo was awfully pretty, and could do puppy dog eyes and beg like no other person I’d ever met. Oliver was a mighty fine pick-pocket, as well, and while Jo and I would beseechingly beg and plead, he’d slip up behind them and relieve them of their wallet. I'm not proud of that fact, but you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do to survive.