The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. Which is why I wasn’t able to see him until today. “Then we must try and make London endurable for you,” he remarked cheerfully. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. gutenberg. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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