You have come in from the street. The outer door is shut behind you, and the wind is only a pressure in the stone. This vestibule was built for that: two doors, a in the floor for the wet, for a coat that must not enter the house dripping.
An hangs on a chain, the glass so even it almost disappears. The flame is small. The walls are a London grammar in a thicker bone — ashlar, not brick, the same joint made quieter. There is no wood. The inner door, north, stands ajar on a measured dark.
A on a peg is still dark with weather. Yours, or the last person's. The is south, and it is the street.
Exits ; .