"Where are we to go?" was the oft-repeated
question, and the only reply was a shrug of the shoulders;
impossible to express oneself otherwise. They clung desperately to
habitations so vile that brutes would have forsaken them for cleaner
and warmer retreats in archway and by roadside. One family of seven,
a man and wife (both ill) with five children, could not be got out,
even when a man had been sent by Mr. Woodstock to remove the
window-frames and take the door away, furniture having already been
seized; only by force at length were they thrown into the street, to
find their way to perdition as best they might. Waymark did not
relish all this; it cost him a dark hour now and then. But it was
rich material; every item was stored up for future use.
Among others, the man named Slimy just managed to hold his footing.
Times were hard with Slimy, that was clear; still, he somehow
contrived to keep no more than a fortnight behind with his rent.
Waymark was studying this creature, and found in him the strangest
matter for observation; in Slimy there were depths beyond Caliban,
and, at the same time, curious points of contact with average
humanity, unexpectedly occurring.
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