These shops are not of any size or
importance--a greengrocer's, with a somewhat scanty choice of vegetables
and fruit, a broker's, displaying queer odds and ends of household goods,
two or three others, and at the end farthest from the chief thoroughfare,
but nearest to the quiet and respectable street beyond, a very
modest-looking little shop-window, containing a few newspapers, some
rather yellow packets of stationery, and two or three books of ballads.
Above the door was painted, in very small, dingy letters, the words,
"James Oliver, News Agent."
The shop was even smaller, in proportion, than its window. After two
customers had entered--if such an event could ever come to pass--it would
have been almost impossible to find room for a third. Along the end ran a
little counter, with a falling flap by which admission could be gained to
the living-room lying behind the shop. This evening the flap was down--a
certain sign that James Oliver, the news agent, had some guest within,
for otherwise there would have been no occasion to lessen the scanty size
of the counter. The room beyond was dark, very dark indeed, for the time
of day; for, though the evening was coming on, and the sun was hastening
to go down at last, it had not yet ceased to shine brilliantly upon the
great city.
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