And the legs inside them did not, as a general rule, seem of much account either. Some of that last kind had the collars of their overcoats turned right up to their moustaches, and traces of mud on the bottom of their nether garments, which had the appearance of being much worn and not very valuable. These customers were either very young men, who hung about the window for a time before slipping in suddenly or men of a more mature age, but looking generally as if they were not in funds. And the two gas jets inside the panes were always turned low, either for economy’s sake or for the sake of the customers. The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls nondescript packages in wrappers like patent medicines closed yellow paper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy black figures a few numbers of ancient French comic publications hung across a string as if to dry a dingy blue china bowl, a casket of black wood, bottles of marking ink, and rubber stamps a few books, with titles hinting at impropriety a few apparently old copies of obscure newspapers, badly printed, with titles like THE TORCH, THE GONG – rousing titles. In the daytime the door remained closed in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar. The shop was a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shop was small, and so was the house. ![]() And, moreover, his wife was in charge of his brother-in-law. Mr Verloc cared but little about his ostensible business. It could be done, because there was very little business at any time, and practically none at all before the evening. Mr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally in charge of his brother-in-law. Scanned and proofed by David Secret Agent
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