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How Mr. Winkle, when he stepped out of the Frying-pan, walked gently and comfortably into the Fire

           

           Hiseyefelluponanewly-paintedtenementwhichhadbeenrecentlyconvertedintosomethingbetweenashopandaprivatehouse,andwhicharedlamp,projectingoverthefanlightofthestreetdoor,wouldhavesufficientlyannouncedastheresidenceofamedicalpractitioner,eveniftheword‘Surgery’hadnotbeeninscribedingoldencharactersonawainscotground,abovethewindowofwhat,intimesbygone,hadbeenthefrontparlour.Thinkingthisaneligibleplacewhereintomakehisinquiries,Mr.Winklesteppedintothelittleshopwherethegilt-labelleddrawersandbottleswere;andfindingnobodythere,knockedwithahalf-crownonthecounter,toattracttheattentionofanybodywhomighthappentobeinthebackparlour,whichhejudgedtobetheinnermostandpeculiarsanctumoftheestablishment,fromtherepetitionofthewordsurgeryonthedoorpaintedinwhitelettersthistime,bywayoftakingoffthemonotony.

           Atthefirstknock,asound,asofpersonsfencingwithfire-irons,whichhaduntilnowbeenveryaudible,suddenlyceased;atthesecond,astudious-lookingyounggentlemaningreenspectacles,withaverylargebookinhishand,glidedquietlyintotheshop,andsteppingbehindthecounter,requestedtoknowthevisitor’spleasure.

           ‘Iamsorrytotroubleyou,Sir,’saidMr.

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Roboto Lora
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