It seemed densely inhabited, for at all the doors there were groups of people squatting, with their heads covered, though scarcely a window showed in the blank walls.
The street corkscrewed endlessly.

Sometimes it seemed to stop; then it found a hole in the opposing masonry and edged its way in.

Often it was almost pitch dark; then would come a greyish twilight where it opened out to the width of a decent lane.

To find a house in that murk was no easy job, and by the time we had gone a quarter of a mile I began to fear we had missed it.

It was no good asking any of the crowd we met.
They didn't look as if they understood any civilized tongue.
At last we stumbled on it--a tumble-down coffee house, with A.
Kuprasso above the door in queer amateur lettering.