But inside James Oliver's house the gas was already lighted
in a little steady flame, which never flickered in the still, hot air,
though both door and window were wide open. For there was a window,
though it was easy to overlook it, opening into a passage four feet wide,
which led darkly up into a still closer and hotter court, lying in the
very core of the maze of streets. As the houses were four stories high,
it is easy to understand that very little sunlight could penetrate to
Oliver's room behind his shop, and that even at noonday it was twilight
there. This room was of a better size altogether than a stranger might
have supposed, having two or three queer little nooks and recesses
borrowed from the space belonging to the adjoining house; for the
buildings were old, and had probably been one large dwelling in former
times. It was plainly the only apartment the owner had; and all its
arrangements were those of a man living alone, for there was something
almost desolate about the look of the scanty furniture, though it was
clean and whole. There had been a fire, but it had died out, and the
coals were black in the grate, while the kettle still sat upon the top
bar with a melancholy expression of neglect about it.
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