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Updated: May 1, 2025
"I know these lodgings, and the miserable women who keep them, and can only make ends meet by thieving the lodgers' mutton. The groshery line is altogether on another shelf. You and your daughters can not only make a living at it, you can make money. Make money." Mrs. Day lifted her head, tried to capture something of her old bearing, tried to get a note of firmness into her voice.
"And I have decided to invest the little capital of six hundred and forty-nine pounds and a few odd shillings I have raised for you, in a business which will yield a good return, and enable you to make a living for your two younger children. A groshery business, in short." "Grocery?" repeated Mrs. Day, gazing blankly at him.
"Groshery," he said shortly, and looked hardily at her with his lips set, his chin stuck out, and his quick observant eyes on her face. "Grocery?" she reiterated faintly, at a loss for anything else to say. "You know that nice bright little business in Bridge Street? Carr's. Old Jonas Carr's. He is retiring, you know or perhaps you don't know it's been kept secret for business purposes.
"If I had my time over again I would take up with the groshery line instead of the drapery. People must have food, ma'am. They must have it, even before frocks and furbelows." "About Bernard?" Mrs. Day asked, waiving, not without dignity, the other subject. "I have thought of sending Bernard to Ingleby. I have opened a branch there.
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