They did not have slates missing and broken windows. It was a front door, solid and sure of itself, in a little side street full of suburban gardens and similar comfortable houses. She had withstood the test on her, that bony pain, and he let her wrist go and went on to the door. She faced him, undefiant but confident, and said, ‘I wonder if they will accept us?’ And, as she had known he would, he said, ‘It is a question of whether we will accept them.’ His hand shot out, and her wrist was encircled by hard bone. For her part she did not have to be told that she was wearing her look, described by him as silly. His face, as she had expected it would be, was critical and meant to be noticed. She took a step back to get a better view of the roof. She got no response, but nevertheless shrugged off her backpack, letting it tumble on to a living rug of young nettles that was trying to digest rusting tins and plastic cups. ‘I should think, 1910,’ said Alice, ‘look how thick the walls are.’ This could be seen through the broken window just above them on the first floor. Black tiles stood at angles along the gutter, and into a gap near the base of a fat chimney a bird flew, trailing a piece of grass several times its length. The house was set back from the noisy main road in what seemed to be a rubbish tip.
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