The air swarmed with flies, spite of the dread example of thousands that lay extinct on sheets of smeared newspaper.

On the counter, among other things, was a perspiring yellow mass, retailed under the name of butter; its destiny hovered between avoirdupois and the measure of capacity.

A literature of advertisements hung around; ginger-beer, blacking, blue, &c., with a certain 'Samaritan salve,' proclaimed themselves in many-coloured letters.

One descried, too, a scrubby but significant little card, which bore the address of a loan office.
The music issued from the parlour behind the shop; it ceased as Ackroyd approached the counter, and at the sound of his footsteps appeared Mrs.
Bower.

She was a stout woman of middle age, red of face, much given to laughter, wholesomely vulgar.