For it is a cheery place. It doesn't look like a doctor's office. There
are dingy haircloth sofas, it is true, and a row of shelves with
bottles, and funny-looking boxes on the mantel--one an electric
battery--and rows and rows of books on the walls. But there are no
dreadful instruments about. If there are, you don't see them.
The big chair he sits in would swallow up a smaller man. It is covered
with Turkey red and has a roll cushion for his head. There are two of
these chairs--one for you, or me; this last has big arms that come out
and catch you under the elbows, a mighty help to a man when he has just
learned that his liver or lungs or heart or some other part of him has
gone wrong and needs overhauling.
Then there is a canary that sings all the time, and a small dog--oh,
such a low-down, ill-bred, tousled dog; kind of a dog that might have
been raised around a lumber-yard--was, probably--one ear gone, half of
his tail missing; and there are some pots of flowers, and on the wall
near the window where everybody can see is a case of butterflies impaled
on pins and covered by a glass.
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