This had become
an established fact irrefutable like a proposition of Euclid and
one of my new friends, who was also a friend of the Dr. Sullivan of
Wigley Street who had so satisfyingly and minutely anticipated my
countenance, made it the staple of his conversation. "Isn't Mr.
Blank," he would say to this and that _habitue_ of the smoking-room as
they dropped in from the neighbouring farms at night, "the very image
of Dr. Sullivan of Wigley Street, who was here last year?" And they
would subject my physiognomy to a searching study and agree that I
was. Perhaps the nose--a little bigger, don't you think? or a shade
of dissimilarity between the chins (he having, I suppose, only
two, confound him!), but taking it all round the likeness was
extraordinary.
This had been going on for some time, until I was accustomed, if not
exactly inured, to it, and was really rather looking forward to the
time when, on returning to London, I could trump up a sufficient
ailment to call upon my double in Wigley Street and scrutinize
him with my own eyes.
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