Strange, vagrant odours come drifting along the greasy wind, and the rain, when it falls, is more like grease than water from heaven.

The very cobblestones are scummed with grease.
Here lives a population as dull and unimaginative as its long grey miles of dingy brick.

Religion has virtually passed it by, and a gross and stupid materialism reigns, fatal alike to the things of the spirit and the finer instincts of life.
It used to be the proud boast that every Englishman's home was his castle.

But to-day it is an anachronism.

The Ghetto folk have no homes.
They do not know the significance and the sacredness of home life.