Withal, St Just did not take his way, as might have been expected, leftwards and up Cranbrook Road towards the abode in Westbury Park of Miss Bianca Columbina; rather, although he looked both left and right, he took neither way, but instead scurried furtively across the street and up through Montpelier via Station Road and Snandrews Road. Passing by the abode of Mr Francis MacMahon and shortly reaching that favela’s summit, he crossed Ashley Road, and plunged down the other side along one of the footpaths running between the allotments and the railway path, until he came down among the outlying buildings of the hamlet of St Werbuggers. Skulking through that village of the damned, he bent his steps towards a certain tavern called the Mynah’s Arms which sequestered itself away in a particularly benighted grove. —
The Mynah’s Arms, St Just
Herein, St Just commanded for himself a pint of Tribute, and made his way through the combled foule of ne’er-do-wells and ruffians, to a table where several familiar and more or less roguish elements took their ease, viz. inter alia, Medusa of the writhing dreadlocks, and Solomon the toper and Hieronymus the harlequin, who were both drinking to the success of the skin grafts which they had undergone in the wake of the industrial accident in Little Mogadishu. —
Solomon, Hieronymus, Medusa
So saying, he plucked from his bosom the portmanteau of billet doux, and emptied it onto the table for the delectation of the low debauched personages who festered there. Hieronymus selected one of the sheets, and held it up to the light, and examined it for some minutes in silence. —
portmanteau of billet doux
“Oy think,” said the gorgon scratching her dreadlocks, “that there be a great deal as might be zed vor getting hup a charivari. Hand never mind ’ow oy knew,” she added with an affronting portentousness, “hus hanarchits ’as har ways hov knowing things.” —
charivari
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