Butcher's Row and its evil reputation, even the ruffians and dissolute
men lurking in the deep doorways did not frighten Lavinia so much as the
silk-coated and bewigged cavaliers. The days of the Mohocks were gone it
was true, but lawlessness still remained.
Lavinia was perfectly conscious that she was being followed by a spark
of this class. She did not dare look round lest he should think she
encouraged him, but she knew all the same that he was keeping on her
heels. Along Fleet Street he kept close to her and on Ludgate Bridge
where the traffic was blocked by the crowd gazing into the Fleet river
at some urchin's paddling in the muddy stream he spoke to her. She
hadn't the least idea what he said, she was too terrified.
In the darkness of St. Paul's Churchyard she had the good luck to avoid
him and she darted into Paternoster Row, and took shelter in a deep
doorway. Either he had not noticed the way she went or he had given up
the chase, for she saw no more of him.
The doorway in which she had sought refuge was a kind of lobby with an
inner door covered with green baize. From the other side came the sound
of loud talking and laughter, and the clinking of glasses. It was the
Chapter Coffee House, the meeting place of booksellers, authors who had
made their names, and struggling scribblers hanging on to the skirts of
the muses.
The air was close. Inside the revellers may have found it insufferable.
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