Here, indeed, I
could fancy that I was in the High Street in Chester, or Leicester, or
Truro, or Canterbury. A demure English provincialism was over
everything, and a young man in a high white collar and a shiny black
coat, washed his hands as he told me that "they hadn't any in stock at
the moment, but they were expecting a delivery of goods at any minute."
Russian shopmen, it is almost needless to say, do not care whether they
have goods in stock or no. They have other things to think about. The
air was filled with the chatter of English governesses, and an English
clergyman and his wife were earnestly turning over a selection of
woollen comforters.
Nothing here for Nina--nothing at all. I hurried away. With a sudden
flash of inspiration I realised that it was in the Jews' Market that I
would find what I wanted. I snatched at the bulging neck of a sleeping
coachman, and before he was fully awake was in his sledge, and had told
him my destination. He grumbled and wished to know how much I intended
to pay him, and when I said one and a half roubles, answered that he
would not take me for less than three.
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