This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. “But I’m afraid you are going to be in a hopeless minority here as regards me. The cook tried to ply her with spiced meat and fish soup. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. “Lord!” she said. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. The benches running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents—bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions. Spurling, who sat on the right of the table.
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