The human soul is a lonely thing, but it must be very lonely sometimes when there are three beds to a room, and casuals with ten shillings are admitted.
"How long have you been here ?" I asked.
"Thirteen years, sir; an' don't you think you'll fancy the lodgin' ?" The while she talked she was shuffling ponderously about the small kitchen in which she cooked the food for her lodgers who were also boarders.

When I first entered, she had been hard at work, nor had she let up once throughout the conversation.

Undoubtedly she was a busy woman.

"Up at half-past five," "to bed the last thing at night," "workin' fit ter drop," thirteen years of it, and for reward, grey hairs, frowzy clothes, stooped shoulders, slatternly figure, unending toil in a foul and noisome coffee-house that faced on an alley ten feet between the walls, and a waterside environment that was ugly and sickening, to say the least.
"You'll be hin hagain to 'ave a look ?" she questioned wistfully, as I went out of the door.
And as I turned and looked at her, I realized to the full the deeper truth underlying that very wise old maxim: "Virtue is its own reward." I went back to her.

"Have you ever taken a vacation ?" I asked.
"Vycytion!" "A trip to the country for a couple of days, fresh air, a day off, you know, a rest." "Lor' lumme!" she laughed, for the first time stopping from her work.