Biting her lips to
preserve the dignity of silence, Polly passed downstairs. Sunshine
through a landing window illumined the dust floating thickly about
the staircase and heated the familiar blend of lodging-house
smells--the closeness of small rooms that are never cleansed, the
dry rot of wall-paper, plaster, and old wood, the fustiness of
clogged carpets trodden thin, the ever-rising vapours from a
sluttish kitchen. As Moggie happened to be wiping down the front
steps the door stood open, affording a glimpse of trams and
omnibuses, cabs and carts, with pedestrians bobbing past in endless
variety--the life of Kennington Road--all dust and sweat under a
glaring summer sun. To Miss Sparkes a cheery and inviting
spectacle--for the whole day was before her, to lounge or ramble
until the hour which summoned her to the agreeable business of
selling programmes at a fashionable theatre. The employment was
precarious; even with luck in the way of tips it meant nothing very
brilliant; but something had happened lately which made Polly
indifferent to this view of the matter.
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