The house smelt like a bar-room.
'Everythink most respectable, I'm sure!' remarked the female mourners to each other, as they crowded together in the parlour.
'An' so it had ought to be!' exclaimed one, in an indignant tone, such as is reserved for the expression of offence among educated people, but among the poor--the London poor, least original and least articulate beings within the confines of civilisation--has also to do duty for friendly emphasis.

'If Mrs.Peckover can't afford to do things respectable, who can ?' And the speaker looked defiantly about her, as if daring contradiction.
But only approving murmurs replied.

Mrs.Peckover had, in fact, the reputation of being wealthy; she was always inheriting, always accumulating what her friends called 'interess,' never expending as other people needs must.

The lodgings she let enabled her to live rent-free and rate-free.

Clem's earnings at an artificial-flower factory more than paid for that young lady's board and clothing, and all other outlay was not worth mentioning as a deduction from the income created by her sundry investments.