'I'm glad to hear it. Can I come up?'

'Will you?'

He entered, and Emma closed the door. It was pitch dark.

'I wish I'd brought a candle down,' Emma said, moving back along the
passage. 'Mind there's a pram at the foot of the stairs.'

The perambulator was avoided successfully by both, and they ascended
the bare boards of the staircase. On each landing prevailed a
distinct odour; first came the damp smell of newly-washed clothes,
then the scent of fried onions, then the workroom of some small
craftsman exhaled varnish. The topmost floor seemed the purest; it
was only stuffy.

Richard entered an uncarpeted room which had to serve too many
distinct purposes to allow of its being orderly in appearance. In
one corner was a bed, where two little children lay asleep; before
the window stood a sewing-machine, about which was heaped a quantity
of linen; a table in the midst was half covered with a cloth, on
which was placed a loaf and butter, the other half being piled with
several dresses requiring the needle. Two black patches on the low
ceiling showed in what positions the lamp stood by turns.

Emma's eldest sister was moving about the room. Hers were the
children; her husband had been dead a year or more. She was about
thirty years of age, and had a slatternly appearance; her face was
peevish, and seemed to grudge the half-smile with which it received
the visitor.