Lavinia knew more about London west of St. Paul's than she did east of
it, and she had to ask her way. Grub Street she found was outside the
city wall, many fragments of which were then standing, and she had to
pass through the Cripples Gate before she reached the squalid quarter
bordering Moor Fields westward, where distressed poets, scurrilous
pamphleteers, booksellers' hacks and literary ne'er-do-wells dragged out
an uncertain existence.
Lavinia found Fletcher's Court to be a narrow passage with old houses
dating from Elizabethan times, whose projecting storeys were so close
together that at the top floor one could jump across to the opposite
side without much difficulty. With beating heart she entered the house,
the door of which was open. She met an old woman descending a rickety
tortuous staircase and stopped her.
"Can you tell me if Mr. Vane lives here?" said she.
"Well, he do an' he don't," squeaked the old dame. "Leastways he won't
be here much longer. He's a bein' turned out 'cause he can't pay his
rent, pore young gentleman. We're all sorry for him, so civil spoken and
nice to everybody, not a bit like some o' them scribblers as do nothing
but drink gin day an' night. Street's full of 'em. I can't make out what
they does for a livin'! Scholards they be most of 'em I'm told. Mr.
Vane's lodgin's on the top floor. You goes right up. That's old Sol
Moggs' squeak as you can hear.
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