The streets of London were as damp as ever, so cold and dark as the grey clouds hung low, threatening a downpour at any moment. A young gentleman of little class made his way along the street, holding on to his violin case tightly as if a bandit would come along and snatch it from his grasp. The streets were lined with shops of all variety, ranging from a bakery to the tailors. The man was no baker nor tailor, he was only a mere publisher with a passion for music.
Entering the shop he had owned since migrating to England, the man heard the bells ring as the door swung open, soon to close once he had let go of the handle. The shop was plain, only a few bookcases and a fireplace with a table and chairs could be seen. The shopkeeper needed not to overdecorate as he was only once again, a mere publisher for the gazette.
