"
The visitor, finding that they were perishing for want, offered the
woman some relief tickets for food; but the poor soul began to cry,
and said; "Eh, aw dar not touch 'em; my husban' would sauce me so!
Aw dar not take 'em; aw should never yer the last on't!" When we got
to the lower end of Hope Street, my guide stopped suddenly, and
said, "Oh, this is close to where that woman lives whose husband
died of starvation. "Leading a few yards up the by-street, he turned
into a low, narrow entry, very dark and damp. Two turns more brought
us to a dirty, pent-up corner, where a low door stood open. We
entered there. It was a cold, gloomy-looking little hovel. In my
allusion to the place last week I said it was "scarcely four yards
square." It is not more than three yards square. There was no fire
in the little rusty grate. The day was sunny, but no sunshine could
ever reach that nook, nor any fresh breezes disturb the pestilent
vapours that harboured there, festering in the sluggish gloom. In
one corner of the place a little worn and broken stair led up to a
room of the same size above, where, I was told, there was now some
straw for the family to sleep upon.
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