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From her two little windows she could see the main road
winding past the house and the small front garden, where
roses, geraniums, and fuchsias grew, heedless of the dust. On
the other side of the road was a bare hill at the back of the
field. Stone fences, along which the vividly coloured autumn
flowers grew between bramble bushes, divided the slope into
squares of stubble, greeny-brown meadow, and blue-green turnip
field; spriggy wind-blown willow bushes grew along the
boundaries. When the evening sun had left Jenny’s window the sky
was flaming red and golden above the ridge and the meagre
twigs of the willows.
At the back of her room was a neat doll’s-house kitchen with
red brick floor, opening into the back yard, where the widow’s
chickens were cackling and the pigeons cooing. A small passage
ran through the house; on the farther side Mrs. Rasmussen
had her parlour, with flower-pots in the window and crochet
work everywhere, daguerreotypes and photographs on the walls,
and a book-case with religious books in black paper covers,
bound volumes of periodicals, and a few novels. At the back
was a small room where she slept, and where the air was
always heavy with an indefinable odour, though everything in
the room was spotlessly clean. She could not hear in there if
her boarder on the other side of the passage spent a night now
and again in tears.
Mrs. Rasmussen was not so bad, on the whole. Tall and
lanky, she pattered about in some kind of felt slippers, always
with a worried look on her long yellow face, which was rather
like that of a horse and had straggling grey hair combed back
from it, forming quaint little wings over the ears. She scarcely
ever spoke, save for an anxious question as to whether the lady
was pleased with the room or the food, and when Jenny went
to sit in the parlour with her needlework they were both
perfectly quiet. Jenny was specially grateful to the woman for
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