Her daughter crouched against the wall, sleeping, perhaps, but nevertheless rocking ceaselessly a wooden cradle that hung from a black bar in the ceiling.

In this cradle lay her son, aged one or two, and once and again he cried for half an hour or so, protesting, I suppose, against our invasion.

There was a smell in the kitchen of sour bread, mice, and bad water.

The heat was terrible but the old lady told us that the grandchild was ill and would certainly die were the window opened.

The candle we blew out but there remained a little burning lamp under the picture of the Virgin immediately over the old lady's bed.