So she lived, secluded as a nun, mocked and derided by her inferiors.
She was born with the love of the finer things that makes poverty tragic.

She kept a box full of the tokens of the past--a scarf of Maltese lace, yellow with age, that her grandmother had sent from England; a long chain of fine gold, too frail to be worn; a brooch set with diamonds in a bygone fashion; a ring with her father's seal carved in onyx.
Her daughter Clara was the image of herself in face and manner, and her grudge against her husband hardened every time she thought of her only child's future.

Clara was fifteen when they descended to Buckland Street, a pampered child, nursed in luxury.

The Duchess belonged to the Church of England, and it had been one of the sights of Billabong to see her move down the aisle on Sunday like a frigate of Nelson's time in full sail; but she had overcome her scruples, and sent Clara to the convent school for finishing lessons in music, dancing, and painting.
We each live and act our parts on a stage built to our proportions, and set in a corner of the larger theatre of the world, and the revolution that displaces princes was not more surprising to them than the catastrophe that dropped the Grimes family in Buckland Street was to Clara and her mother.
Clara had been taught to look on her equals with scorn, and she stared at her inferiors with a mute contempt that roused the devil in their hearts.

She had lived in the street ten years, and was a stranger in it.