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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