“In private. ‘All right, Trodger. Suppose—suppose a girl did want to start in life, start in life for herself—” She looked him frankly in the eyes. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. He did so care for you. Idleness is the key of beggary, Jack.
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