"Ugh; it's the limit, this nipping, howling hemisphere." And he turned up his overcoat collar.
"I prefer it to a hemisphere that smells like a cheap joss-stick," said Selwyn.
"After all, they're about alike," retorted Boots--"even to the ladrones of Broad Street and the dattos of Wall.

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And here's our bally bungalow now," he added, fumbling for his keys and whistling "taps" under his breath.
As the two men entered and started to ascend the stairs, a door on the parlour floor opened and their landlady appeared, enveloped in a soiled crimson kimona and a false front which had slipped sideways.
"There's the Sultana," whispered Lansing, "and she's making sign-language at you.