Arthur tapped his fingers on the rim of the cup as he leisurely listened to the tirade.
"So..." he deliberately stretched the tone, as if casually asking, "You’re planning to change labs, then?"
"Of course!" Wheatstone imdiately replied, his voice tinged with a mix of almost-shaful anger, "I should have changed a long ti ago! That place is simply unfit for anyone, let alone for conducting experints!"
"So where do you plan to move?"
"How would I know!" Wheatstone grumbled, scratching his head irritably, "I just want to find a lab that isn’t next to a slaughterhouse, where I don’t have to step over sheep dung to get in. It doesn’t matter if it’s a bit smaller or more rundown, as long as it’s quiet. By the way, didn’t you ask to forgive you? If you can find a suitable place, then I won’t hold against you for that business of dragging to Gottingen."
Hearing this, Arthur mock-seriously feigned difficulty, "It’s not that I’m saying, Charles, but places like that are hard to co by in London. At either end of Oxford Street, there’s the Carnaby Market selling grains and the St. George’s Market for ats. Near Portland Street, there’s Oxford Vegetable Market, to the west of Cousin Street is Shepherd Market, and not far from Strand is Hungerford Market... Not to hide from you, back when I patrolled the streets, I once counted that, on average, there are 14 stalls selling fish or fruit per mile in London. If you’re truly seeking peace and quiet, your best bet might be to move to the countryside."
Upon hearing this, Wheatstone felt as if his ears were filled with the cries of various vendors.
Even before his eyes were piled with one penny a portion chestnuts, one penny for sixteen walnuts, two pennies per pound of grapes, one penny for three Yarmouth cured herrings, or four pennies for a hat and half a penny for three pairs of shoelaces.
Of course, even more unbearable than the vendors’ cries were the voices of the won bargaining.
These ladies are far more challenging to deal with than their husbands. They can exude the majesty of the Queen even just buying a piece of at, and when the shopkeepers see these ladies approaching, their always-busy mouths beco even more annoying.
"Look at this piece of at, it’s of remarkable quality, I guarantee... Originally it was nine and a half pennies per pound, but I want you to beco a regular custor, so I’ll only take nine pennies."
The housewife would argue with the butcher for a bit and then pretend to leave.
Then the butcher could be seen rushing out to persuade her to stay, "Alright, alright, how much are you willing to pay?"
The housewife’s offer of eight pennies a pound was rejected, but after so haggling, they finally settled at eight and a half pennies.
However, even if the frugal housewife won, she would still insist that the butcher add a few more ounces of lamb fat. The butcher, after grumbling a few complaints, would "reluctantly" agree.
Although most of these shopping housewives were poor, they couldn’t afford bags, so they had to lift the corners of their aprons to wrap up their purchases. But this did not hinder these won, swift in their movents, as they navigated through stalls selling walnuts, black shoe polish, vegetables, suspenders, combs, paper, pens, and even chicken corn redies.
To Arthur, who was accustod to street life, this was the essence of the city’s liveliness.
Even though he didn’t particularly enjoy such a noisy environnt, how else could one prove they lived in the city?
Won haggling and rejoicing over a new discount is perfectly normal.
n, while their wives shopped, would slip into barbershops on the street and tidy themselves up, celebrating their escape from being appointed the "basket bearer" by their wives, which was also quite normal.
But for Wheatstone, all this was nothing short of purgatory.
He muttered, "Can’t a vast city like London yield a single patch of purity?"
Arthur put down his teacup and said, "Are you planning to hide in a cellar?"
Wheatstone glared at him, "A cellar beats a cowshed! I’d rather catch a cold than listen to a calf’s high-pitched screams all night!"
Hearing this, Arthur raised an eyebrow, "The way you say that, if Eld heard it, he could very well turn it into a Nottingham-thed romance novel."
"Don’t use that lowbrow novelist to provoke ! I’m not falling for your trick!" Wheatstone said while ripping off a chunk of the bread he hadn’t finished, his ferocious expression as if he were chewing on Arthur’s flesh instead.
"Speaking of which, Charles, I’ve been pondering a question lately; don’t laugh when I say it. It’s probably a question only soone like you can answer."
With his mouth still full, Wheatstone mumbled indistinctly, "What question? Are you pulling in to analyze so suspicious encrypted nu or invoice again?"
"No, no, no, none of those tricks this ti." Arthur said earnestly, "I’ve been wondering how people can focus on their work? It’s not that I’m particularly intolerant of noise, but finding a place without disturbances is quite tricky."
Still licking the edges of the butter, Wheatstone replied without skipping a beat, "What could be tricky for you? Go to St Martin’s Church next to Trafalgar Square; rember you once lay there for three days without anyone disturbing you."
Arthur initially intended to keep playing along, but Wheatstone’s words caught him off guard.
Shortly thereafter, Arthur adeptly put on a dark face, "Charles, I was initially going to give you the peaceful spot I found. But since you don’t really value our friendship, I suppose we can forget about it."
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