In the window there was a sign, "Liquors, pure as imported." The place was dingy and cold.

The floor was sanded.

The two or three guests were huddled about a stove--one asleep upon a bench, the others smoking short pipes; and their hard, cadaverous faces and sullen eyes turned no welcome upon Abel when he entered, but they looked at him quickly, as if they suspected him to be a policeman or magistrate, and as if they had reason not to wish to see either.

But in a moment they saw it was not a sober man, whoever he was.

Abel tried to stand erect, to look dignified, to smooth himself into apparent sobriety.