It was a typical July day in a large seaport town of South Wales.
There had been refreshing showers in the morning, giving place to a
murky haze through which the late afternoon sun shone red and
round. The small kitchen of No. 2 Bryn Street was insufferably hot,
in spite of the wide-open door and window. A good fire burnt in the
grate, however, for it was near tea-time, and Mrs. Parry knew that
some of her lodgers would soon be coming in for their tea. One had
already arrived, and, sitting on the settle in the chimney corner,
was holding an animated conversation with his landlady, who stood
before him, one hand akimbo on her side, the other brandishing a
toasting fork.
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