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. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. “You have even her name. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. “Oh, Lord!” she said, discovering what she was up to, and dropped lightly from the fence upon the turf and went on her way toward the crest.
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