Her husband--ten years deceased--had been a 'moulder'; he earned on an average between three and four pounds a week, and was so prudently disposed that, for the last decade of his life, he made it a rule never to spend a farthing of his wages.

Mrs.Peckover at that time kept a small beer-shop in Rosoman Street--small and unpretending in appearance, but through it there ran a beery Pactolus.

By selling the business shortly after her husband's death, Mrs.Peckover realised a handsome capital.

She retired into private life, having a strong sense of personal dignity, and feeling it necessary to devote herself to the moral training of her only child.
At half-past eleven Mrs.Peckover was arrayed in her mourning robes--new, dark-glistening.

During her absence Clem had kept guard over Mrs.Gully, whom it was very difficult indeed to restrain from the bottles and decanters; the elder lady coming to relieve, Clem could rush away and don her own solemn garments.