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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"The Stark Munro Letters"


"What do you intend to do now?" he asked.
"Oh, I shall find plenty to do. Don't you worry
about that," I answered.
"Oh, but this is all rot," said he, picking up the
plate. "Come along upstairs and let us see where we
stand."
We filed off once more, he leading with the huge
brass "Dr. Munro" under his arm; then the little woman,
and then this rather perturbed and bemuddled young man.
He and his wife sat on the deal table in the consulting
room, like a hawk and a turtle-dove on the same perch,
while I leaned against the mantelpiece with my hands in
my pockets. Nothing could be more prosaic and informal;
but I knew very well that I was at a crisis of my life.
Before, it was only a choosing between two roads. Now my
main track had run suddenly to nothing, and I must go
back or find a bye-path.
"It's this way, Cullingworth," said I. "I am very
much obliged to you, and to you, Mrs. Cullingworth,
for all your kindness and good wishes, but I did not come
here to spoil your practice; and, after what you have
told me, it is quite impossible for me to work with you
any more."
"Well, my boy," said he, "I am inclined myself to
think that we should do better apart; and that's Hetty's
idea also, only she is too polite to say so."
"It is a time for plain speaking," I answered, it and
we may as well thoroughly understand each other. If I
have done your practice any harm, I assure you that I am
heartily sorry, and I shall do all I can to repair it.


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