THE UNEXPECTED LETTER
THE UNEXPECTED LETTER
As much as I dislike superlatives, I must confess that nothing in my life has given me greater surprise than that letter addressed to me in a firm but unfamiliar hand, face upward on the counter of a small curiosity shop in an insignificant by-street of a strange city.
I have a weakness for such small shops, where one is commonly permitted to roam at will amid a multitude of attractive objects without the slightest obligation to buy, and the proprietors are often men of intelligence and education. When I have leisure I rarely resist the temptation to enter, and in this case the impulse had been almost mandatory.
It was my first visit to Selbyville, and I may say that it will probably be my last; for I have never seen a duller, less interesting place. A bad connection had left me stranded at the railway station there, with several hours to be disposed of, as I feared, in aimless wanderings along streets and avenues each one more crude and commonplace than the last; but the chance discovery of a favorite haunt filled me at once with lively satisfaction.
A dark and musty little shop, it proved to be, and its owner all I could have wished—a mild old Dickens person who had a virtuous pride in his collection, and at once divined in me a sympathetic listener. At first I followed him from case to case with unaffected interest and attention; but presently, I own, his conversation grew a trifle wearisome, and I allowed my thoughts to stray.