I've edited the last chapter; and Anne has declined the offer of money, instead of accepting it.
Chapter 3
When they had left the stage, Mr Murdoch loosened his grip on Anne’s arm, which dropped to her side. “Would you like me to escort you home, Miss Lincombe?” He cast a sideways glance at his son, who looked at Anne briefly, and then turned away, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. “I am sure Henry and I would be happy to. And it seems rather late in the evening for such a young woman to be out on the streets. How old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?”
“Eighteen,” said Anne, somewhat indignantly. “And I dare say I would not mind an escort. But I cannot pry any more on your good company, so I will bid you farewell.”
“That will not do,” interjected Mr Murdoch. “That will not do at all. Look here, we have a carriage, which I am sure you will be glad of. It is October and biting cold. You cannot pretend you would rather walk.”
Anne sighed. It was true, the weather was abysmal in October and a fresh storm was brewing outside. But how could she accept so much from a mere stranger?
“That is that,” Mr Murdoch said firmly. “You will come with us, my dear, and welcome to.”
When they arrived at Coal Yard Alley, Anne had the driver stop the horses. Mr Murdoch hastily descended, and helped her out of the grand mahogany-coloured carriage. Henry Murdoch nodded at Anne, drawing the lace curtain and peering through the window with his remote eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, looking from father to son. “I must go now.”
She left hastily, slightly embarrassed that such grand people should see the deplorable state of her lodgings. As befitting such an address as Coal Yard Alley, the house was dark and dank, flanked by a tavern and a yard where coal lay in melancholy, sooty piles. The back-to- back houses were squeezed together in a pathetic line, and clothes hung around them on lines, pegged up like white cadavers.
Anne could never quite work out why people hung their clean clothes out to dry in such dirty circumstances.
Particles of coal dust danced sad waltzes in the rank-smelling air, as if propelled by the imaginary music of some gloomy organ. The black needle-head fragments were illuminated once in a while by a shaft of sunlight escaping through the hoary clouds; looking rather as if a pepper pot had been shaken vehemently onto a pile of snow. Nobody could take in a breath of air without inhaling a thick clot of dust into their nostrils.
Before entering the house, Anne cast a glance back at the carriage. Mr Murdoch was gazing around as if he had just stepped into another world. His dark eyes were squinting, his nostrils pinched slightly. He seemed overcome by the sights and smells, but not disgusted or disdainful. Eventually, he returned into the carriage and was driven away. Anne stayed outside the door until the sound of expensively-shod hooves on cobbled pavement faded away.
She walked slowly up the two flights of stairs leading to the apartment and, upon opening the door, saw her mother standing there, hands on hips.
She pulled Anne inside and shut the door. “Well then,” she said breathlessly, “Who’s yer gentleman, then?”
“No, Mother...” started Anne, but was cut off.
“From what I could see of him inside the carriage, he’s quite a good looking feller. I dare say you’re lucky, Anne. And what a fine vehicle. From the looks of it, he’s bloomin’ rich as well. You’ve fallen on your feet this time, m’dear.”
“Mother, you don’t understand,” said Anne firmly. “I have never seen a man less interested in me than Henry Murdoch. He’s positively indifferent. This isn’t a romance, simply a kind old gentlemen who wanted to escort me home.”
“But...” started Mrs Lincombe. “But I was so sure...”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mother,” Anne said bitterly. She took off her coat and seated herself on the armchair, whereupon she sensed a jingling sound on her dress. From further investigation, she made the discovery of ten golden sovereigns sitting coyly in the cotton pocket, sneering at her.
“Though here, at least I’ve come home with something.” She emptied out the contents of her pockets onto the kitchen table.
“Sovereigns?” Anne’s mother gasped. “Gold?” Hurriedly, the elderly woman scraped the coins off the splintery wood with wrinkled fingers, and scooped them into her pocket. “With a bit more, we’ll soon have enough to pay the rent on this old place.”
“I know, Mother,” said Anne unenthusiastically; her good mood had been punctured by her mother’s obvious dissatisfaction in her. “It’s wonderful. Though I denied them when they were offered to me. He must have placed them in my pocket without my knowing.”
Panting slightly, Mrs Lincombe eased herself down into the rocking chair and paused in speech for a very long time, gnarled fingers pressed against her papery temples. Her eyebrows were knitted in thought and her whole face creased. Finally, she addressed her daughter. “Anne,” she said. “I think it would be advisable for you to keep in contact with this Mr...Mr...”
“Murdoch,” said Anne. “Mr Murdoch.”
“Yes, this, ah, Mr Murdoch. You cannot come to any harm doing so and seeing as he has been such a generous benefactor, if you are friendly enough, he might make a constant activity of these donations.”
“Mother!” said Anne. “I will not beg for money like some half-starved wretch. That would be despicable, you know it would. I cannot stoop to that level, Mother, and I never will.”
“Do not shout at me so, Anne,” protested Mrs Lincombe. “You have no respect. I am not asking you to beg, but do not lose his acquaintance. It may prove valuable.”
Anne collected herself and nodded, repressing the urge to scream. “Yes, Mother,” she said in a voice ridged with forced composure. “I will try.”
It fits Anne so well 
did you mean too or and you're welcome too? Sorry; I might be completely obtuse and my head still feels funny from a sip of champagne that my dad gave me 
