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Chapter the Seventh
The Little Shop at Fishbourne
I
For fifteen years Mr. Polly was a respectable shopkeeper in
Fishbourne.
Years they were in which every day was tedious, and when they were
gone it was as if they had gone in a flash. But now Mr. Polly had good
looks no more, he was as I have described him in the beginning of this
story, thirty-seven and fattish in a not very healthy way, dull and
yellowish about the complexion, and with discontented wrinklings round
his eyes. He sat on the stile above Fishbourne and cried to the
Heavens above him: "Oh! Roo-o-o-tten Be-e-astly Silly Hole!" And he
wore a rather shabby black morning coat and vest, and his tie was
richly splendid, being from stock, and his golf cap aslant over one
eye.
Fifteen years ago, and it might have seemed to you that the queer
little flower of Mr. Polly's imagination must be altogether withered
and dead, and with no living seed left in any part of him. But indeed
it still lived as an insatiable hunger for bright and delightful
experiences, for the gracious aspects of things, for beauty. He still
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