He has no such abode nor belongings. He lives all
alone by himself in an old-fashioned house on Bedford Place--oh, Such a
queer, hunched-up old house and such a quaint old neighborhood poked
away behind Jefferson Market--and he opens the door himself and sees
everybody who comes--there are not a great many of them nowadays,
more's the pity.
There are only a few such houses left up the queer old-fashioned street
where he lives. The others were pulled down long ago, or pushed out to
the line of the sidewalk and three or four stories piled on top of them.
Some of these modern ones have big, carved marble porticos, made of
painted zinc and fastened to the new brickwork. Inside these portals are
a row of bronze bells and a line of speaking tubes with cards below
bearing the names of those who dwell above.
The Doctor's house is not like one of these. It would have been had it
not belonged to his old mother, who died long ago and who begged him
never to sell it while he lived. He was thirty years younger then, but
he is still there and so is the old house.
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