It wasn’t. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. This year—I’ve got it badly. Montressor’s guests were. The walls were bare, and painted in stone-colour; the floors, devoid of carpet; the beds, of hangings; the windows, of blinds; and, excepting in the thief-taker's own audience-chamber, there was not a chair or a table about the premises; the place of these conveniences being elsewhere supplied by benches, and deal-boards laid across joint-stools. After passing Tottenham Court Road, very few houses were to be seen on the right hand, opposite Wardour Street it was open country. They are for serving me.
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