In the midst of this fog many pedestrians are wandering to and fro,
crowding the streets, hurrying along the wharves, hailing vehicles,
accosting their friends, and in fact as perfectly happy in their
surroundings as though the cheerful, sunshine were illuminating all
visible space.
Passing along Prince William street as far as Chubb's Corner we see
a familiar form--it is Phillip Lawson. He is enveloped in a gray
Mackintosh and his soft felt hat is worn with an air of careless
ease that is more becoming than otherwise.
"Chubb's Corner" had lost its charm for the young lawyer. He did not
stop to consult stocks, exchanges, debentures or any such business,
but merely nodding to an acquaintance or so crossed the street and
wended his steps to the lawyers' nests--nests from the fact that in
this, locality they hatched all the schemes by which to victimize
their unwary clients.
But of our friend. He gained his apartments, and throwing aside the
outer garment, sat down at his desk and drawing his hand across his
forehead, began to think. "I want to see nobody for the next hour,"
murmured the young man, his brows contracting as he spoke.
A deep shade settled upon the usually mild countenance.
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