CHAPTER X
The Ones You LoveAbramson’s Pawnbroker Shop, located well off the beaten track in a dingy Whitechapel side lane, was in itself hard enough to find. Its tiny sub-basement, reached through a trapdoor normally covered with a mouldy carpet, was next to impossible to find, or at any rate, Mr. Abramson certainly hoped that it was. Amidst the clutter of a battered printing press and workbenches heavily laden with jars, bottles, stationery and photographic equipment, Anne could barely find room to stand, and wondered how the frail, sixty-eight-year-old Mr. Abramson, having neither her acute night-vision nor her phasing ability, could move through it all with such ease by the light of one feeble electric bulb. At least having a normal human sense of smell spared him the full force of the
