The neighbourhood seemed to breathe a tranquil
prosperity. Red-cheeked emissaries of butcher, baker, and grocer,
order-book in hand, knocked cheerily at kitchen doors, and went smiling
away; the ponies they drove were well fed and frisky, their carts spick and
span. The church of the parish, an imposing edifice, dated only from a few
years ago, and had cost its noble founder a sum of money which any
church-going parishioner would have named to you with proper awe. The
population was largely female, and every shopkeeper who knew his business
had become proficient in bowing, smiling, and suave servility.
Mr. Farmiloe, it is to be feared, had no very profound acquaintance with
his business from any point of view. True, he was 'chemist by examination,'
but it had cost him repeated efforts to reach this unassailable ground and
more than one pharmaceutist with whom he abode as assistant had felt it a
measure of prudence to dispense with his services. Give him time, and he
was generally equal to the demands of suburban customers; hurry or
interrupt him, and he showed himself anything but the man for a crisis.
Face and demeanour were against him. He had exceedingly plain features, and
a persistently sour expression; even his smile suggested sarcasm.
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