Where they lived, there
were no massive granite steps flanked with equally massive
pillars--such as herald the approach to the Nob Hill palaces; no rare
glass bow-windows looking out on to flower bedecked lawns; no vast
betiled hall, with rotundas in the centre; no highly polished oak
staircases; no frescoed ceilings; no tufted, cerulean blue silk
draperies; and no sweet perfumery--only the smell, if one may so
suddenly sink to a third-class expression--only the smell of rank
tobacco and equally rank lager beer. No, Messrs. Kelson and Curtis
resided within a stone's throw of the five cent baths in Rutter
Street--and that was the nearest they ever got to bathing. Their suite
of apartments consisted of one room, about ten by eight feet, which
served as a dining-room, drawing-room, study, boudoir, kitchen,
bedroom, and--from sheer force of habit, I was about to add bathroom;
but as I have already hinted cold water on half-empty stomachs and
chilly livers is uninviting; besides, soap costs something. Their
furniture was antique but not massive; nor could any of it be fairly
reckoned superfluous. All told, it consisted of a bedstead (three
six-foot planks on four sugar cubes; the bedclothes--a pair of
discarded overalls, a torn and much emaciated blanket, a woolly neck
wrap, a yellow vest, and the garments they stood in); a small round
and rather rickety deal table; and one chair. Of the very limited
number of culinary utensils, the frying-pan was by far the most
important.
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