She looked up, and blinked her eyes, as she perceived the tall hollow tower of the staircase, lighted by three gas jets, one on every second landing; the last one, right up at the top looked like a star twinkling in a black sky, whilst the other two cast long flashes of light, of fantastic shapes, among the interminable windings of the stairs.
"By Jove!" said the zinc-worker as he reached the first floor, smiling, "there's a strong smell of onion soup.

Someone's having onion soup, I'm sure." Staircase B, with its gray, dirty steps and hand-rail, its scratched walls and chipped plaster, was full of strong kitchen odors.

Long corridors, echoing with noise, led away from each landing.

Doors, painted yellow, gaped open, smeared black around the latch from dirty hands.

A sink on each landing gave forth a fetid humidity, adding its stench to the sharp flavor of the cooking of onions.