Of a sudden he turned and said sharply: 'Well, are you goin' to take it or not ?' Pennyloaf sighed and nodded.
'Got a 'apenny ?' he asked.
'No.' He fetched a cloth, rolled the articles in it very tightly, and pinned them up; then he made out ticket and duplicate, handling his pen with facile flourish, and having blotted the little piece of card on a box of sand (a custom which survives in this conservative profession), he threw it to the customer.

Lastly, he counted out one shilling and fivepenee halfpenny.

The coins were sandy, greasy, and of scratched surface.
Pennyloaf sped homewards.

She lived in Shooter's Gardens, a picturesque locality which demolition and rebuilding have of late transformed.

It was a winding alley, with paving raised a foot above the level of the street whence was its main approach.