In pursuance of this plan, we went into London on an early day and presented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.
He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where there were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking about in cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he was a better tenant than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friend Somebody always paying his rent at last, or whether his inaptitude for business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him out, I don't know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It was in a state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. Two or three of the area railings were gone, the water-butt was broken, the knocker was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off a long time to judge from the rusty state of the wire, and dirty footprints on the steps were the only signs of its being inhabited.
A slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at the rents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripe berry answered our knock by opening the door a very little way and stopping up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce (indeed Ada and I both thought that she evidently associated him with the receipt of her wages), she immediately relented and allowed us to pass in. The lock of the door being in a disabled condition, she then applied herself to securing it with the chain, which was not in good action either, and said would we go upstairs?

So, soon afterwards, we went into London and presented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.
He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where there were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking about in cloaks, smoking little cigars. Whether he was a better tenant than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friend Somebody always paying his rent, I don't know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It was in a dilapidated state. Two or three of the area railings were gone, the knocker was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off, and dirty footprints on the steps were the only signs of its being inhabited.
A slatternly girl who seemed to be bursting out at the rips in her gown like an over-ripe berry answered our knock by opening the door a very little way. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce (indeed Ada and I both thought that she evidently associated him with the receipt of her wages), she immediately relented and allowed us to pass in.
