Though the signs outside identified it as a hotel, the Cavendish was no place for the unsuspecting tourist. Most strangers who ventured into the dim, cluttered lobby at 82 Jermyn Street were sternly told to try elsewhere. Others, if they were lucky enough to remind the proprietress of some long-vanished Victorian buck or Bostonian pooh-bah, would be clasped to her shapely bosom and regaled with surrealistic reminiscences about old Lord Droopy Drawers and Lady You-Know-'Oo, or "the time we went to Ireland on roller skates."
Rosa Lewis, the cockney genie who conjured...
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