I’d dropped my papers at tists, and ing-room, or ‘parlour’ as o call it, , but it ime for a bit of grub. I don’t kno it into my o go into a milk-bar. to-ten-pound-a- ing-places in London. If your idea of t to spend on a meal is one and t’s eit’s t of bitter and a slab of cold pie, so cold t it’s colder tside t editions of the evening papers.

    Be red counter a girl in a tall  tiddle-tiddle-plonk, a kind of tinny sound.  to myself as I  in. tmosp t gets me doreamlined; mirrors, enamel, and ce  on tions and not all. Just lists of stuff  of pom stuff t you can’t taste and can ence of. Everyt of a carton or a tin, or it’s  of a refrigerator or squirted out of a tap or squeezed out of a tube. No comfort, no privacy. tall stools to sit on, a kind of narroo eat off, mirrors all round you. A sort of propaganda floating round, mixed up o t t food doesn’t matter, comfort doesn’t matter, notters except slickness and sreamlining. Everytreamlined no ler’s keeping for you. I ordered a large coffee and a couple of frankfurters. te cap jerked t me  as mucerest as you’d ts’ eggs to a goldfish.

    Outside tarnoosstanNERD!’ I saer flapping against  ‘legs’, you notice. It  doo t. ting-room, done up in a broions of tion o be so passionately interested in ted legs t t need any furtroduction. t  t. It’s queer, I t, as I ate a bit of roll, ting noting people up and leaving bits of t tryside. Not a patcic poisoning dramas, Crippen, Seddon, Mrs Maybrick; trut you can’t do a good murder un