He found Pennyloaf sitting on the stairs with her two children, as usual; poor Pennyloaf had not originality enough to discover new expressions of misery, and that one bright idea of donning her best dress was a single instance of ingenuity.

In obedience to Jane Snowdon, she kept herself and the babies and the room tolerably clean, but everything was done in the most dispirited way.
'What are you kicking about here for ?' asked Bob impatiently.

'That's how that kid gets its cold--of course it is!--Ger out!' The last remark was addressed to the elder child, who caught at his legs as he strode past.

Bob was not actively unkind to the little wretches for whose being he was responsible; he simply occupied the natural position of unsophisticated man to children of that age, one of indifference, or impatience.

The infants were a nuisance; no one desired their coming, and the older they grew the more expensive they were.
It was a cold evening of October; Pennyloaf had allowed the fire to get very low (she knew not exactly where the next supply of coals was to come from), and her husband growled as he made a vain endeavour to warm his hands.
'Why haven't you got tea ready ?' he asked, 'I couldn't be sure as you was comin', Bob; how could I?
But I'll soon get the kettle boilin'.' 'Couldn't be sure as I was coming?
Why, I've been back every night this week--except two or three.' It was Thursday, but Bob meant nothing jocose.
'Look here!' he continued, fixing a surly eye upon her.