How full of drama, of tragedy must be their stories: their problems the grim realities of life, not only its mere sentimental embroideries.

The daily struggle for bare existence, the ever-shadowing menace of unemployment, of illness, leaving them helpless amid the grinding forces crushing them down on every side.

The ceaseless need for courage, for cunning.

For in the kingdom of the poor the tyrant and the oppressor still sit in the high places, the robber still rides fearless.
In a noisy, flaring street, a thin-clad woman passed her, carrying a netted bag showing two loaves.

In a flash, it came to her what it must mean to the poor; this daily bread that in comfortable homes had come to be regarded as a thing like water; not to be considered, to be used without stint, wasted, thrown about.