Pauline had prepared supper for herself and
her father, and a very frugal meal it was, for neither of them could
drink beer nor spirits, and they could not afford wine. Pauline and
Zachariah were duly introduced, and Zachariah looked around him. The
room was not dirty, but it was extremely unlike his own. Shoe-making
implements and unfinished jobs lay here and there without being "put
away." An old sofa served as a seat, and on it were a pair of lasts,
a bit of a French newspaper, and a plateful of small onions and
lettuce, which could not find a place on the little table.
Zachariah, upstairs in Rosoman Street, had often felt just as if he
were in his Sunday clothes and new boots. He never could make out
what was the reason for it. There are some houses in which we are
always uncomfortable. Our freedom is fettered, and we can no more
take our ease in them than in a glass and china shop. We breathe
with a sense of oppression, and the surroundings are like repellant
chevaux de frise. Zachariah had no such feelings here. There was
disorder, it is true; but, on the other hand, there was no polished
tea-caddy to stare at him and claim equal rights against him, defying
him to disturb it.
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