There was no living in the house with that Miss Sparkes, who treated everybody like dirt under her feet.

Smack her face, would she?
What next?
And all because she said the water would have to be '_otted_.

And Mr.Gammon wanted his breakfast in bed, and--and--why, there now, it had all been drove out of her mind by that Miss Sparkes.
Mrs.Bubb, the landlady, was frying some sausages for her first-floor lodgers; as usual at this hour she wore (presumably over some invisible clothing) a large shawl and a petticoat, her thin hair, black streaked with grey, knotted and pinned into a ball on the top of her head.

Here and there about the kitchen ran four children, who were snatching a sort of picnic breakfast whilst they made ready for school.

They looked healthy enough, and gabbled, laughed, sang, without heed to the elder folk.