In previous winters he had been wont to undergo a good deal of martyrdom from the London climate, but never in such a degree as now; mental illness seemed to have enfeebled his body.
It was strange that he succeeded in doing work of any kind, for he had no hope from the result.

This one last effort he would make, just to complete the undeniableness of his failure, and then literature should be thrown behind him; what other pursuit was possible to him he knew not, but perhaps he might discover some mode of earning a livelihood.
Had it been a question of gaining a pound a week, as in the old days, he might have hoped to obtain some clerkship like that at the hospital, where no commercial experience or aptitude was demanded; but in his present position such an income would be useless.

Could he take Amy and the child to live in a garret?
On less than a hundred a year it was scarcely possible to maintain outward decency.

Already his own clothing began to declare him poverty-stricken, and but for gifts from her mother Amy would have reached the like pass.

They lived in dread of the pettiest casual expense, for the day of pennilessness was again approaching.
Amy was oftener from home than had been her custom.
Occasionally she went away soon after breakfast, and spent the whole day at her mother's house.