Maggie had not even in Glebeshire known so
furious a day and hour when the winds tossed and raged but never
broke into real storm. It was the more surprising. She had to pause
for a moment to remember where Turnstall's the butcher was, then,
suddenly recalling it, she turned off the High Street and found her
way to the mean streets that ran behind the Promenade. Still she met
no one. It might have been a town abandoned by all human life and
given over to the wind and rain and the approaching absorption of
the sea. It was now dark and the lamp at the end of the street blew
gustily and with an uncertain flare.
Maggie found Turnstall's, its shop lit and Mr. Turnstall himself,
stout and red-faced, behind his bloody counter. She went in and
asked him where "The Sea Dog" might be. He explained to her that it
was close at hand, on the right, looking over the Promenade. She
found it at last because it had an old-fashioned creaking wooden
sign with a blue sailor painted on it. Timidly she stepped into the
dark uneven passage. To the right of her she could see a deserted
room with wooden trestles and a table.
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