There were shops in
this street such as Viner had never seen the like of--shops wherein
coarse, dreadful looking food was exposed for sale; and there were
public-houses from which came the odour of cheap gin and bad beer and
rank tobacco; an atmosphere of fried fish and something far worse hung
heavily above the dirty pavements, and at every step he took Viner asked
himself the same question--what on earth could Miss Wickham and Mrs.
Killenhall be doing in this wretched neighbourhood?
Suddenly he came to the house he wanted--Number 23. It was just like
all the other houses, of sombre grey brick, except for the fact that
it looked somewhat cleaner than the rest, was furnished with blinds
and curtains, and in the front downstairs window had a lower wire
blind, on which was worked in tarnished gilt letters, the word
_Surgery_. On the door was a brass plate, also tarnished, across which
ran three lines in black:
"Dr. Martincole.
Attendance: 3 to 6 p. m.
Saturdays. 5 to 9.30 p. m."
Before Viner took the bell in hand, he glanced at the houses which
flanked this East-end surgery. One was a poor-looking, meanly equipped
chemist's shop; the other a second-hand clothing establishment.
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