…from which to look upon the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on which to dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, and threatening to fall into it—as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication…
There are no more uses of "squalor" in the book.
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To meet her today, you would never guess she lived in squalor as a child.
Inside in that squalor? Why, I’ll just bet you anything that place is acrawl with black widows.