One kind of shopman was just like another to him--which was oddly inconsequent on the part of a mind that, where it did notice, noticed so much.

He took throughout, always, the meaner sort for granted--the night of their meanness, or whatever name one might give it for him, made all his cats grey.

He didn't, no doubt, want to hurt them, but he imaged them no more than if his eyes acted only for the level of his own high head.

Her own vision acted for every relation--this he had seen for himself: she remarked beggars, she remembered servants, she recognised cabmen; she had often distinguished beauty, when out with him, in dirty children; she had admired "type" in faces at hucksters' stalls.

Therefore, on this occasion, she had found their antiquario interesting; partly because he cared so for his things, and partly because he cared--well, so for them.