“Somewhere in Brompton or Kensington there is an endlessly long street with tall and rich, but mostly empty houses, like an alley of tombs. Even the steps leading up to the dark front doors seem as steep as the steps of the pyramids; you will inevitably wonder whether it is worth knocking on the door if a mummy opens it. But an even more depressing impression is made by the telescopic extent of the gray facades and their unchanging sequence. A wanderer walking down the street begins to feel as if he will never reach a crossroads or even a break in this orderly chain. However, there is one exception - a very small one, but the tired traveler is ready to greet him with almost a cry of delight. It is something like a cabman's yard between tall mansions, just a doorway compared to the street. By the Lord's grace, a tiny beer hall or tavern for grooms and coachmen was nestled here. In its very shabbyness and insignificance there is something cheerful, free and perky. At the foot of these gray giants, it looks like a dwarven dwelling with welcomingly lit windows...”