The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Mom, this is Lucy Albert from school. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. She had had two days of employment-seeking now. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence.
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