We were in a fever of expectation; we exhausted conjecture--we imagined all possible trades, none of which were perfectly reconcilable with our idea of the gradual decay of the tenement.

It opened, and we wondered why we had not guessed at the real state of the case before.

The shop--not a large one at the best of times--had been converted into two: one was a bonnet-shape maker's, the other was opened by a tobacconist, who also dealt in walking-sticks and Sunday newspapers; the two were separated by a thin partition, covered with tawdry striped paper.
The tobacconist remained in possession longer than any tenant within our recollection.

He was a red-faced, impudent, good-for-nothing dog, evidently accustomed to take things as they came, and to make the best of a bad job.

He sold as many cigars as he could, and smoked the rest.