The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances. I get the worst headaches. Not so bad. One of those hanging moments ensued— hypnotic. This year—I’ve got it badly.
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