“Andrews’s house. He welcomed the sight; it had been a gray, dreary Christmas, and a bit of sugar frosting might make London more attractive—at least until the coal smoke turned it to black crusts. He paid the chair-men and hurried across to the door, shivering. The footman took a dreadfully long time to answer, and bowed deeply as he let Galen in. “My apologies, Mr. St. Clair. Dr. Andrews is in his laboratory at present. If you would be so kind as to wait in the parlor, he will be with you ...shortly.” Galen agreed, and was led upstairs to the back parlor. While he waited, he chafed his cold hands in front of the fire and surveyed the room. It had the kind of vague ordinariness that characterized the homes of many bachelors; Andrews put out sufficient effort to furnish his parlor with chairs, tables, and so on, but with no wife to make it fashionable, the result was utterly forgettable. “Ah, Mr. St. Clair.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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