His home, like that of many others in the working-class neighborhood

His home, like that of many others in the working-class neighborhood, it lacked superfluous ornaments, a pragmatic construction that offered unostentatious shelter. It was a compact living space, where every square meter had to fulfill an essential function. When you cross the threshold, one was immediately in a corridor narrow and dark, barely illuminated by the faint light that filtered from the main room. on the left, could distinguish the silhouette of a fireplace wooden staircase, steep and crisp under my feet the weight. At the end of the corridor , the living room opened like the heart of the house. A sturdy wooden table, marked by scars from shared meals and everyday tasks, occupied the center of the home, surrounded by disparate but functional chairs. On one of the walls, the imposing presence of a charcoal fireplace, with its sooty black mouth, was the focal point, a promise of warmth in the cold London winters. A rough wooden shelf displayed some faded photographs in simple frames and a pair of worthless ceramic figurines. the exposed brick walls, with its rough texture and the earthy color of the fired clay, they told a story of rapid construction and economy. The wooden plank floor, visibly worn out by countless steps, creaked softly under my feet, each table silently counting the years of our lives here. Sometimes I think about how many steps Margaret must have taken on these boards— I sighed. They revealed the dark veins of the aged wood. A shabby carpet, with a pattern blurred by the use, tried to provide a note of warmth without much success. The kitchen was a tiny annex, barely separated from the room by a curtain of thick, faded fabric, adorned with an already almost imperceptible floral pattern. In this small space, a charcoal stove blackened by soot was the center of the culinary activity, next to a sink made of chipped white earthenware, with a single cold water faucet. The utensils hung on hooks on the wall or were piled up messily on a flimsy wooden shelf. At the end of the hallway, two doors gave access to bedrooms. They were small rooms, barely large enough to house a simple wooden bed, covered with blankets thick and patched, and an austere two-door cabinet. The light from outside was scarce, filtering through small windows, tarnished by the humidity and soot of the industrial environment. The interior atmosphere was imbued with a faint warmth, Of the gas lamps that they projected a yellowish and flickering light.

His home, like that of many others in the working-class neighborhood, it lacked superfluous ornaments, a pragmatic construction that offered unostentatious shelter. It was a compact living space, where every square meter had to fulfill an essential function. When you cross the threshold, one was immediately in a corridor narrow and dark, barely illuminated by the faint light that filtered from the main room. on the left, could distinguish the silhouette of a fireplace wooden staircase, steep and crisp under my feet the weight. At the end of the corridor , the living room opened like the heart of the house. A sturdy wooden table, marked by scars from shared meals and everyday tasks, occupied the center of the home, surrounded by disparate but functional chairs. On one of the walls, the imposing presence of a charcoal fireplace, with its sooty black mouth, was the focal point, a promise of warmth in the cold London winters. A rough wooden shelf displayed some faded photographs in simple frames and a pair of worthless ceramic figurines. the exposed brick walls, with its rough texture and the earthy color of the fired clay, they told a story of rapid construction and economy. The wooden plank floor, visibly worn out by countless steps, creaked softly under my feet, each table silently counting the years of our lives here. Sometimes I think about how many steps Margaret must have taken on these boards— I sighed. They revealed the dark veins of the aged wood. A shabby carpet, with a pattern blurred by the use, tried to provide a note of warmth without much success. The kitchen was a tiny annex, barely separated from the room by a curtain of thick, faded fabric, adorned with an already almost imperceptible floral pattern. In this small space, a charcoal stove blackened by soot was the center of the culinary activity, next to a sink made of chipped white earthenware, with a single cold water faucet. The utensils hung on hooks on the wall or were piled up messily on a flimsy wooden shelf. At the end of the hallway, two doors gave access to bedrooms. They were small rooms, barely large enough to house a simple wooden bed, covered with blankets thick and patched, and an austere two-door cabinet. The light from outside was scarce, filtering through small windows, tarnished by the humidity and soot of the industrial environment. The interior atmosphere was imbued with a faint warmth, Of the gas lamps that they projected a yellowish and flickering light.

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