The windows of the ground floor and of that
above, and the fanlights above the doors, were boarded up, a guard against
unlicensed intrusion; the top story had not been thought to stand in need
of this protection, and a few panes were broken. On these dead frontages
could be traced the marks of climbing plants, which once hung their leaves
about each doorway; dry fragments of the old stem still adhered to the
stucco. What had been the narrow strip of fore-garden, railed from the
pavement, was now a little wilderness of coarse grass, docks, nettles, and
degenerate shrubs. The paint on the doors had lost all colour, and much of
it was blistered off; the three knockers had disappeared, leaving
indications of rough removal, as if--which was probably the case--they had
fallen a prey to marauders. Standing full in the brilliant sunshine, this
spectacle of abandonment seemed sadder, yet less ugly, than it would have
looked under a gloomy sky. Goldthorpe began to weave stories about its
musty squalor. He crossed the road to make a nearer inspection; and as he
stood gazing at the dishonoured thresholds, at the stained and cracked
boarding of the blind windows, at the rusty paling and the broken gates,
there sounded from somewhere near a thin, shaky strain of music, the notes
of a concertina played with uncertain hand.
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