The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. "I can never get poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify myself somehow. “Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. “As I have explained many a time, Lucia, the maladies of the blood and flesh do not afflict us. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle.
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