She might have been waiting for her lover. For three-quarters of an hour she had sat on the same high stool, half-turned from the counter, watching the swing door. Behind her the ham sandwiches were piled up under a glass dome, the urns gently steamed. As the door swung open, the steam of engines silted in, like grit on the skin and copper on the tongue.
‘Another gin.’ It was her third. Damn him, she thought with tenderness, I’m hungry. She swallowed it at a draft, as she was used to drinking schnaps.
Graham Greene: England Made Me