On that marble balcony of Lord Leighster’s townhouse, wreathed by an overly-ornate iron railing, it occurred to Martin Preston that human sewage stank no matter in which city one found oneself.
It fouled the sights of Calcutta as easily as it did Casablanca, sometimes stinking in town worse than seven weeks at sea. Even at this most magnificent ball in the great imperial center of London, Martin caught its unmistakable whiff above the fragrant springtime garden blooms.