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. The black clad students streamed slowly to their positions carrying their instruments like offerings to the pilgrimage. Brendon made a quick movement forward. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands.
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