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 in the front doors seem to have been cut out of one sheet; the doors and wood-work are all painted the same colour: any resident in such a street might well be excused if he were found entering the house of a neighbour under the impression that its threshold was his own. And if the inquisitive could penetrate behind the cheap lace curtains—between which, in every case, a pensive aspidistra lifts its leaves from a pot placed on an antimacassared table—he would find that all the front parlours are alike; small, four-square tanks in which a suite of cheap but showy furniture is stiffly disposed against the walls, and the mantelpiece is crowded with ornaments which he will itch to break and family photographs that show how ill-favoured most folk are, and wherein there is an atmosphere, impossible to describe but speedily assertive, which is a sure proof that this, the Sanctum Sanctorum of the establishment is like a lot of other truly British things, only for use on Sunday.

It was in a room of this dispiriting description that Wedgwood found himself at the end of his somewhat lengthy ride. He had been admitted to Number 59 by a girl in whom he saw a close resemblance to Mattie Patello. There was a portrait of Mattie on the mantelpiece; he recognized it at once. There were