In a poor little street in a crowded city there stood a small house, not alone, but in the middle of a row of other houses exactly like it. There was a tiny bow window on the left of the door, and two very small sash windows in the storey above; the frames were warped, and the paint, like that of the door, was blistered and cracked in many places. And the doorstep looked as if it had been cleaned a week or so before with whiting instead of pipe-clay, and evidently the person who had done it had, doubtless with the very best intentions in the world, given the lower part of the door a few daubs with the same cloth, which had not at all improved its shabby surface. Between the house and the pa…
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