All the officers are simple-minded, born to be dutiful. However, if anyone intends to disrupt and harm the country, we will not let a single traitor pass.
——Arthur Hastings, "Fifty Years of Life"
Covent Garden Market at dusk was still echoing with the noise of the day, while the night's lights had begun to twinkle, the air filled with the mingled scents of roast meat, beer, damp cobblestones, and cheap perfume.
Fruit stall owners were counting the remaining peaches and plums, while drunkards wailed and gambled with dice at the nearby pub entrance. The flower girl's voice was hoarse, yet she didn't forget to hum a few tunes, occasionally picking up a rose to wink at the gentlemen passing by.
A few young butchers just off work from the meat shop were stuffing their aprons into their waistbands, walking in small groups towards the theatre, discussing neither Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, nor Bach, but the leading lady's ankle and the barmaid's apron buttons.
