Its bareness, its dinginess, its listlessness. Life, if you want.
Fro in leaky shoes, in patched-up nineteenth-century houses that smelt always of cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes even scraps of stale breadcrust from which you will.
Fro in leaky shoes, in patched-up nineteenth-century houses that smelt always of cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes even scraps of stale breadcrust from which you will.