The outside parts lie on one bed, and the insides on the other.

They are drying while the children sleep; by and by they will be put together, tied in dozens, and next morning taken to the factory.

But of their future history we dare not inquire.
The widow speaks to us, but her hands never rest; we notice the celerity of her movements, the dreadful automatic certainty of her touch is almost maddening; we wait and watch, but all in vain, for some false movement that shall tell us she is a human and not a machine.

But no, over her shoulder to the bed on the left side, or over her shoulder to the bed on her right side, the boxes fly, and minute by minute and hour by hour the boxes will continue to grow till her task is completed.

Then she will put them together, tie them in dozens, and lay herself down on that bed that contains the two children.
Need we continue?
I think not, but it may give wings to imagination when I say that in London's underworld there are at least 50,000 women whose earnings do not exceed three halfpence per hour, and who live under conditions similar to those described.