'Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot. You'd be pleasanter
somewhere else--with Lady Knollys, for instance, eh?'
'Well, _there_ certainly. But I am very well here: really the time passes
very pleasantly; and my uncle is so kind. I have only to mention anything
that annoys me, and he will see that it is remedied: he is always
impressing that on me.'
'Yes, it is not a fit place for you,' said Doctor Bryerly. 'Of course,
about your uncle,' he resumed, observing my surprised look, 'it is all
right: but he's quite helpless, you know. At all events, _think_ about it.
Here's my address--Hans Emmanuel Bryerly, M.D., 17 King Street, Covent
Garden, London--don't lose it, mind,' and he tore the leaf out of his
note-book.
'Here's my fly at the door, and you must--you must' (he was looking at his
watch)--'mind you _must_ think of it seriously; and so, you see, don't let
anyone see that. You'll be sure to leave it throwing about. The best way
will be just to scratch it on the door of your press, inside, you know; and
don't put my name--you'll remember that--only the rest of the address; and
burn this.
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