It was a squalid room, its ceiling and walls smoke-stained from the cracked and never polished stove in the corner.

The air was foul with the strong old onions stewing on the stove.

In a skillet slices of pork were frying.

On the back of the stove stood a pan of mashed potatoes and a tin coffeepot.
On the stained flowered cloth which covered the table in the middle of the room had been laid coarse, cracked dishes and discolored steel knives and forks with black wooden handles.
Susan, half fainting, dropped into a chair by one of the open windows.

A multitude of fat flies from the stable were running and crawling everywhere, were buzzing about her head.