Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. The turning of the key startled her, but she did not see how she could make an objection. He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. All human food tasted equally dead and loathsome to her, whether it was prime steak or cheap hamburger.
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