In a dingy garret, looking out, when its grimy panes allowed, above
one of the many squalid streets that feed the main artery of the
Strand, my story begins anew. The furniture of the room relieves me
of the task of word-painting, being more effectively described by
catalogue, after the manner of the ships at Troy. It consisted of
two small beds, one rickety washstand, one wooden chair, and one tin
candlestick. At the present moment this last held a flickering dip,
for it was ten o'clock on the night of May the ninth, eighteen
hundred and sixty-three. On the chair sat Tom, turning excitedly the
leaves of a prodigiously imposing manuscript. I was sitting on the
edge of the bed nearest the candle, brooding on my hate as usual.
Fortune had evidently dealt us some rough knocks. We were dressed,
as Tom put it, to suit the furniture, and did it to a nicety.
We were fed, according to the same authority, above our income; but
not often. I also quote Tom in saying that we were living rather
fast: we certainly saw no long prospect before us.
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