On
reaching the neighbourhood of Peckham, they struck off through a
complex of small new streets, apparently familiar to Waymark, and
came at length to a little shop, also very new, the windows of which
displayed a fresh-looking assortment of miscellaneous goods. There
was half a large cheese, marked by the incisions of the
tasting-knife; a boiled ham, garlanded; a cone of brawn; a truncated
pyramid of spiced beef, released from its American tin; also German
sausage and other dainties of the kind. Then there were canisters of
tea and coffee, tins of mustard, a basket of eggs, some onions,
boxes of baking-powder and of blacking; all arranged so as to make
an impression on the passers-by; everything clean and bright. Above
the window stood in imposing gilt letters the name of the
proprietor: O'Gree.
They entered. The shop was very small and did not contain much
stock. The new shelves showed a row of biscuit-tins, but little
else, and from the ceiling hung balls of string. On the counter lay
an inviting round of boiled beef. Odours of provisions and of fresh
paint were strong in the air. Every thing gleamed from resent
scrubbing and polishing; the floor only emphasised its purity by a
little track where a child's shoes had brought in mud from the
street; doubtless it had been washed over since the Sunday morning's
custom had subsided.
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