"--"Through the Looking Glass."
"But it can't be this!" I said. "You've made a mistake in the number!"
"It is this," declared my guide and companion. "This is where Nanni
Bailey has her tea shop."
"But this is--is--isn't anything!"
Indeed the number to which my friend pointed seemed to indicate the
entrance to a sort of warehouse, if it indicated anything at all. On
peering through the dim and gloomy doorway, it appeared instead to be
a particularly desolate-looking cellar. There were old barrels and
boxes about, an expanse of general dusty mystery and, in the dingy
distance, a flight of ladder-like steps leading upwards to a faint
light.
"It's one of Dickens' impossible stage sets come true!" I exclaimed.
"It looks as though it might be a burglars' den or somebody's back
yard, but anyway, it isn't a restaurant!"
"It is too!" came back at me triumphantly. "Look at that sign!"
By the faint rays of a street light on nearby Sixth Avenue, I saw the
shabby little wooden sign, "The Samovar." This extraordinary place was
a restaurant after all!
We entered warily, having a vague expectation of pickpockets or rats,
and climbed that ladder--I mean staircase--to what was purely and
simply a loft.
Pages:
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240