His father was one of my old customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps. It'll be your own fault if you don't soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. We leave this room together. I deserve pretty much what I’ve got.
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