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by Jack London (Author)
But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than usually deceitful with regard to these unfortunate people. In spite of their good furniture-that substantial outward sign of respectability which is the last thing which wise folk who fall into trouble try to dispose of-they were almost at the end of their tether. Already they had learnt to go hungry, and they were beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing the sober man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up some time ago by Bunting. And even Mrs. Bunting-prim, prudent, careful woman as she was in her way-had realised what this must mean to him. So well, indeed, had she understood that some days back she had crept out and bought him a packet of Virginia.
