He must be on the right course, because he was beginning to see a higher class of vendor: sellers of books strolling along holding advertisements over their heads on sign-boards, a candy-man carrying small scales, a seller of eau-de-vie carrying a basket of tiny bottles, and a goblet; a seller of pâtés carrying a sort of painter's palette with smudges of different varieties, and many orange-girls: all of them crying the particular cries that belonged to that sort of vendor, like birds with their own distinct calls. Jack was on Rue Vivienne. It was starting to look like Amsterdam: finely-dressed men of many lands, strolling along having serious conversations: making money by exchanging words. But it also looked a bit like the Booksellers' Quarter in Leipzig: whole cart-loads of books, printed but not bound, disappearing into one especially fine House: the King's Library.