Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be. Michelle looked like she was about to throw up herself.
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