The sight of him, absorbed in his paper as he was, irritated her, and made her long to get away from him.

Opening the door which separated the sitting-room from the bedroom behind, and -- shutting out the aggravating vision of Bunting sitting comfortably by the now brightly burning fire, with the Evening Standard spread out before him--she sat down in the cold darkness, and pressed her hands against her temples.
Never, never had she felt so hopeless, so--so broken as now.

Where was the good of having been an upright, conscientious, self-respecting woman all her life long, if it only led to this utter, degrading poverty and wretchedness?
She and Bunting were just past the age which gentlefolk think proper in a married couple seeking to enter service together, unless, that is, the wife happens to be a professed cook.

A cook and a butler can always get a nice situation.

But Mrs.
Bunting was no cook.