This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. The doctor paced the room half a dozen times. ‘I must, for that the pig has already gone to monsieur le baron. Then, naturally, I went on talking.
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