She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. Its architecture was richly ornamental, and resembled the style of a triumphal entrance to a capital, rather than a dungeon having battlements and hexagonal towers, and being adorned on the western side with a triple range of pilasters of the Tuscan order, amid the intercolumniations of which were niches embellished with statues. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. It was open. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures.
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