[The Vanishing Man by R. Austin Freeman]@TWC D-Link book
The Vanishing Man

CHAPTER II
2/20

It turns out of Fetter Lane on the right 'and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings." I thanked Mrs.Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning round was nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite and of a desire to wash in hot water.
The practice which I was conducting was not my own.

It belonged to poor Dick Barnard, an old St.Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits and indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for a trip down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the currant trade; and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyage of geographical discovery.
I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow, arched opening, bearing the superscription "Nevill's Court," arrested my steps, and here I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait for the wanderer in London byways.

Expecting to find the grey squalor of the ordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of the arch past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of light and colour--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved by sunlit foliage.

In the heart of London a tree is always a delightful surprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers.

The narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their wooden palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint and sober rusticity; and even as I entered a bevy of work-girls, with gaily-coloured blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened up the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summer hedgerow.
In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved with what looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found to be old-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I was meditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who had thus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps, or an author, or perchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seeking inscribed on a shabby door in a high wall.


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