And yet I was given to understand that this was one of the better grades of sweating.
I looked out of the window, which should have commanded the back yards of the neighbouring buildings.

But there were no back yards, or, rather, they were covered with one-storey hovels, cowsheds, in which people lived.

The roofs of these hovels were covered with deposits of filth, in some places a couple of feet deep--the contributions from the back windows of the second and third storeys.

I could make out fish and meat bones, garbage, pestilential rags, old boots, broken earthenware, and all the general refuse of a human sty.
"This is the last year of this trade; they're getting machines to do away with us," said the sweated one mournfully, as we stepped over the woman with the breasts grossly naked and waded anew through the cheap young life.
We next visited the municipal dwellings erected by the London County Council on the site of the slums where lived Arthur Morrison's "Child of the Jago." While the buildings housed more people than before, it was much healthier.

But the dwellings were inhabited by the better-class workmen and artisans.