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On the ground-floor are some people called Budgen; he's a labourer, and she's lame. They've got one son. The Hughs have let off the first-floor front-room to an old man named Creed " "Yes, I know," Cecilia muttered. "He makes about one and tenpence a day by selling papers. The back-room on that floor they let, of course, to your little model, Aunt B." "She is not my model now."
Budgen, in whose grey eyes the fighting light so fortunately never died, painfully doing out her rooms, and propping herself against the chest of drawers whereon clustered china cups and dogs as thick as toadstools on a bank. "I've told my Charlie," she said, "to keep clear of Hughs a bit. They comes out as prickly as hedgehogs. Pick a quarrel as soon as look at you, they will."
Thus, in the hypnotic silence of high thoughts, the two young "Sanitists" arrived in Hound Street. In the doorway of No. 1 the son of the lame woman, Mrs. Budgen the thin, white youth as tall as Martin, but not so broad-stood, smoking a dubious-looking cigarette. He turned his lack-lustre, jeering gaze on the visitors. "Who d'you want?" he said.
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