It’s these damned novels. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. I wanted something alive. When I've escorted you proud fool to his new quarters, I'll proceed to the Mint and look after Jack Sheppard. CHAPTER XI. He lunched in the Legal Club in Chancery Lane, and met Ogilvy.
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