The floor is of asphalt, the walls whitewashed, with a shelf running round at easy distance from the ground⁠—just the right height for tired backs to lean against. In front of the shelf are wooden benches, straight and uncompromising, and every evening these are closely packed with women. The first night I went there I came straight from the bitter rain into the blaze of a huge coke fire jutting out into the room, which is lit by a dim gas burner that occasionally flames into erratic brightness.

Through dark arches on either side of the fireplace is a vista of another room, gloomy and chill. Here comes the homeless who have collected the price of a bed.