He shuddered, remembering the real thing.

But even the shudder had the delightful shame of escape.

The wine, the common food, the familiar place, the faces of natural and talkative men, made him almost feel as if the Council of the Seven Days had been a bad dream; and although he knew it was nevertheless an objective reality, it was at least a distant one.
Tall houses and populous streets lay between him and his last sight of the shameful seven; he was free in free London, and drinking wine among the free.

With a somewhat easier action, he took his hat and stick and strolled down the stair into the shop below.
When he entered that lower room he stood stricken and rooted to the spot.

At a small table, close up to the blank window and the white street of snow, sat the old anarchist Professor over a glass of milk, with his lifted livid face and pendent eyelids.