They climbed three smelly flights of stairs, followed a dark hallway and came to a halt. He took out his keys and opened a door. “Step in,” he requested.
“You’ve got the light lit,” she announced.
“Yes, I thought it’d be—”
“It’s awful nice here.”
“Do you think so?” he questioned eagerly, greatly encouraged. “But it’s such a small, dingy place.”
“Oh no,” she maintained. “It’s nice an’ cosy.”
Erna walked about, examining articles with her inquisitive eyes. “So this is your piano?”
“Yes, it’s an old box.”
“No, it’s nice lookin’. An’ whose picture is that?”
“My mother’s.”