The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so low that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the blackened ceiling if he stood upright. It is offensive to every sense; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the polluted air. There are a couple of benches and a higher bench by way of table. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken is a very young child.
"Why, what age do you call that little creature?" says Bucket. "It looks as if it was born yesterday." He is not at all rough about it; and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr. Snagsby is strangely reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that he has seen in pictures.
"He is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman.

The room is so low that the head of the tallest visitor would touch the blackened ceiling if he stood upright. The candle burns sickly in the polluted air. There are a couple of benches and a table. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken is a baby.
"What age is that little creature?" says Bucket. "It looks as if it was born yesterday." He turns his light gently on the infant.
"He is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman.
