You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. This is a joke of yours. Nor can we. The stench is everywhere. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. All four people moved a little nervously into the drawing-room, maintaining a sort of fluttered amiability of sound and movement.
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