With her still lived her son Stephen,
the potman. His payment was ten shillings a week (with a daily
allowance of three pints), and he saw to it that there was always a
loaf of bread in the room they occupied together. Stephen took
things with much philosophy; his mother would, of course, drink
herself to death--what was there astonishing in that? He himself
had heart disease, and surely enough would drop down dead one of
these days; the one doom was no more to be quarrelled with than the
other. Pennyloaf came to see them at very long intervals; what was
the use of making her visits more frequent? She, too, viewed with a
certain equanimity the progress of her mother's fate. Vain every
kind of interposition; worse than imprudence to give the poor
creature money or money's worth. It could only be hoped that the end
would come before very long.
An interesting house, this in which Mrs. Candy resided. It contained
in all seven rooms, and each room was the home of a family; under
the roof slept twenty-five persons, men, women, and children; the
lowest rent paid by one of these domestic groups was
four-and-sixpence. You would have enjoyed a peep into the rear
chamber on the ground floor.
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