Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor’s friend, and the

quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.

On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho,

early in the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because,

on fine Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the

Doctor and Lucie; secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays,

he was accustomed to be with them as the family friend, talking,

reading, looking out of window, and generally getting through the

day; thirdly, because he happened to have his own little shrewd

doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the Doctor’s household

pointed to that time as a likely time for solving them.

A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was

not to be found in London. There was no way through it, and the

front windows of the Doctor’s lodgings commanded a pleasant

little vista of street that had a congenial air of retirement on it.

There were few buildings then, north of the Oxford-road, and

forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers grew, and the hawthorn

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a consequence, country

airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom, instead of

languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a

settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on

which the