The room smelt damp. The
Public Works team had done their best; plaster here, institution blue and cream
paint there. Regulation office furniture; hardly attractive, but hard wearing
and cheap carpets on the wooden floor. The Old Bushmills jug and
ashtray and the sweet smell of coronas provided some welcome relief. Blowing out a plume of smoke,
Sowerbutt smiled: “Lived in the shadow of the Tower all my life, but I’ve never
been inside before. A few royals lost their heads here, didn’t they?”
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