From the houses near you could catch a faint smell of supper: very friendly people those were in these houses; she knew them all well.

The children came out with their faces washed, to play, now the sun was down: the oldest of them generally came to sit with her and hear a story.
After it grew darker, you would see the girls in their neat blue calicoes go sauntering down the street with their sweethearts for a walk.

There was old Polston and his son Sam coming home from the coal-pits, as black as ink, with their little tin lanterns on their caps.

After a while Sam would come out in his suit of Kentucky jean, his face shining with the soap, and go sheepishly down to Jenny Ball's, and the old man would bring his pipe and chair out on the pavement, and his wife would sit on the steps.

Most likely they would call Lois down, or come over themselves, for they were the most sociable, cosiest old couple you ever knew.