The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. Further on, there was a small chandler's shop, where Jack observed an old woman seated at the counter, attended by a little girl. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. And then! a garment that was conceivably a secondary skirt.
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