There were
amber silk sashes to the Nottingham lace curtains at the huge bow
window and an amber winding sheet was wrapped about the terra cotta pot
in which a tired aspidistra bore forth a yearly leaf. Upon the Brussels
carpet was a massive mahogany dining table, and facing the window a
Georgian chiffonier, brass railed and surmounted by a convex mirror.
The mantlepiece was draped in red serge, ball fringed. There were
bronzes upon it and a marble clock, while above was an overmantel,
columned and bemirrored, upon the shelves of which reposed sorrowful
examples of Doulton ware and a pair of wrought-iron candlesticks. It
was a room divorced from all sense of youth and live beings, sunless,
grave, unlovely; an arid room that bore to the nostrils the taint and
humour of the tomb.
From somewhere near the Edgware Road came the clot-clot of a late
four-wheeler and the shake and rumble of an underground train. The
curtains had been discreetly drawn, the gas turned off at the metre and
an hour had passed since the creaking of the old lady's shoes and the
jingle of the plate basket ascending the stairs had died away.
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