It is a sultry day towards the end of May. The clock is on the stroke of twelve. Most of the waiting work-people have the air of standing before the bar of justice, in torturing expectation of a decision that means life or death to them. They are marked too by the anxious timidity characteristic of the receiver of charity, who has suffered many humiliations, and, conscious that he is barely tolerated, has acquired the habit of self-effacement. Add to this a rigid expression on every face that tells of constant, fruitless brooding. There is a general resemblance among the men. They have something about them of the dwarf, something of the schoolmaster. The majority are flat-breasted, short-minded, sallow, and poor looking—creatures of the loom, their knees bent with much silting. At a, first glance the women show fewer typical traits. They look over-driven, worried, reckless, whereas the men still make some show of a pitiful self-respect; and their clothes are ragged, while the men's are patched and mended. Some of the young girls are not without a certain charm, consisting in a wax-like pallor, a slender figure, and large, projecting, melancholy eyes.
NEUMANN
[Counting out money.] Comes to one and seven-pence halfpenny.
WEAVER'S WIFE
[About thirty, emaciated, takes up the money with trembling fingers.] Thank you, sir.
NEUMANN
[Seeing that she does not move on.] Well, something wrong this time, too?
WEAVER'S WIFE
[Agitated, imploringly.] Do you think I might have a few pence in advance, sir? I need it that bad.