Are you very sure theyre not really worth something?

Charlotte was conscious of a mind divided and a vision vaguely troubled, and once more she took up two or three of the subjects of this revelation; a big bracelet in the form of a gilt serpent with many twists and beady eyes, a brazen belt studded with emeralds and rubies, a chain, of flamboyant architecture, to which, at the Theatre Royal Little Peddlington, Hamlet’s mother must have been concerned to attach the portrait of the successor to Hamlet’s father. “Are you very sure they’re not really worth something? Their mere weight alone–!” she vaguely observed, balancing a moment a royal diadem that might have crowned one of the creations of the famous Mrs. Jarley.
But Arthur Prime, it was clear, had already thought the question over and found the answer easy. “If they had been worth anything to speak of she would long ago have sold them. My father and she had unfortunately never been in a position to keep any considerable value locked up.” And while his companion took in the obvious force of this he went on with a flourish just marked enough not to escape her: “If they’re worth anything at all–why you’re only the more welcome to them.”
Charlotte had now in her hand a small bag of faded figured silk–one of those antique conveniences that speak to us, in terms of evaporated camphor and lavender, of the part they have played in some personal history; but though she had for the first time drawn the string she looked much more at the young man than at the questionable treasure it appeared to contain. “I shall like them. They’re all I have.”
“All you have–?”
“That belonged to her.”
He swelled a little, then looked about him as if to appeal–as against her avidity–to the whole poor place. “Well, what else do you want?”
“Nothing. Thank you very much.” With which she bent her eyes on the article wrapped, and now only exposed, in her superannuated satchel–a string of large pearls, such a shining circle as might once have graced the neck of a provincial Ophelia and borne company to a flaxen wig. “This perhaps IS worth something. Feel it.” And she passed him the necklace, the weight of which she had gathered for a moment into her hand.
He measured it in the same way with his own, but remained quite detached. “Worth at most thirty shillings.”
“Not more?”
“Surely not if it’s paste?”
“But IS it paste?”
He gave a small sniff of impatience. “Pearls nearly as big as filberts?”