The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. ‘And, if this was not enough,’ went on the lady furiously, ‘you dare to say I am French. She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop.
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