kind of prettiness which is often enough seen in the London
needle-slave. Her habitual look was one of meaningless surprise;
whatever she gazed upon seemed a source of astonishment to her, and
when she laughed, which was not very often, her eyes grew wider than
ever. Her attire was miserable, but there were signs that she tried
to keep it in order; the boots upon her feet were sewn and patched
into shapelessness; her limp straw hat had just received a new
binding.

By saying that she had things 'to put away,' she meant that her
business was with the pawnbroker, who could not receive pledges
after eight o'clock. It wanted some ten minutes of the hour when she
entered a side-doorway, and, by an inner door, passed into one of a
series of compartments constructed before the pawnbroker's counter.
She deposited her bundle, and looked about for someone to attend to
her. Two young men were in sight, both transacting business; one was
conversing facetiously with a customer on the subject of a pledge.
Two or three gas-jets lighted the interior of the shop, but the
boxes were in shadow. There was a strong musty odour; the gloom, the
narrow compartments, the low tones of conversation, suggested
stealth and shame.

Pennyloaf waited with many signs of impatience, until one of the
assistants approached, a smartly attired youth, with black hair
greased into the discipline he deemed becoming, with an aquiline
nose, a coarse mouth, a large horseshoe pin adorning his necktie,
and rings on his fingers. He caught hold of the packet and threw it
open; it consisted of a petticoat and the skirt of an old dress.

'Well, what is it?' he asked, rubbing his tongue along his upper lip