And in the same room, heavy and sickening with the exhalations of their packed bodies throughout the night, that breakfast is eaten.

The father goes to work, the elder children go to school or into the street, and the mother remains with her crawling, toddling youngsters to do her housework--still in the same room.

Here she washes the clothes, filling the pent space with soapsuds and the smell of dirty clothes, and overhead she hangs the wet linen to dry.
Here, in the evening, amid the manifold smells of the day, the family goes to its virtuous couch.

That is to say, as many as possible pile into the one bed (if bed they have), and the surplus turns in on the floor.

And this is the round of their existence, month after month, year after year, for they never get a vacation save when they are evicted.
When a child dies, and some are always bound to die, since fifty-five per cent.