Dorothea knew the way to Holborn but was less well acquainted with the drinking dens of London. She had never been inside a pub and had only heard tales of horror about the type of people that frequented them.
Half an hour's brisk walking in the sour rain allowed Dorothea to reach Holborn without incident. She was drenched and uncomfortable.
The Poxy Goat was obvious, not only for its sign showing a thin and rickety nanny goat by bucket, but also for the waft of alcohol eminating from inside and the raucous singing. It was not a place that Dorothea had expected to find a surgeon.
As Dorothea was about to go in, a large middle aged lady with a wart on her nose came out.
"Oh, you don't want to go in there deary. It's not for the likes of a fine girl like you. Follow me instead. I can get you out of those wet clothes."
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