Ernest's shop in its untenanted state was a
dirty, unsavoury place enough. The house was not old, but it had
been run up by a jerry-builder and its constitution had no stamina
whatever. It was only by being kept warm and quiet that it would
remain in health for many months together. Now it had been empty for
some weeks and the cats had got in by night, while the boys had broken
the windows by day. The parlour floor was covered with stones and
dirt, and in the area was a dead dog which had been killed in the
street and been thrown down into the first unprotected place that
could be found. There was a strong smell throughout the house, but
whether it was bugs, or rats, or cats, or drains, or a compound of all
four, I could not determine. The sashes did not fit, the flimsy
doors hung badly; the skirting was gone in several places, and there
were not a few holes in the floor; the locks were loose, and paper was
torn and dirty; the stairs were weak and one felt the treads give as
one went up them.
Over and above these drawbacks the house had an ill name, by
reason of the fact that the wife of the last occupant had hanged
herself in it not very many weeks previously.
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