You walk purposefully down the sidewalk, looking neither left nor right. You don't need to look; you can tell you are being watched from whispers overheard as you pass by.
"Poor Amelia..." you hear somebody say. Poor Amelia, indeed. You hurry on, not caring to hear any more.
Reaching the Lucky Strike, you force yourself to climb the steps and push open the doors, stopping just inside to let your eyes adjust to dim light.