In any case, just remember, the old chap is doing well now, and his business is flourishing!
Arthur pushed open the wooden door that always creaked softly, and the copper bell on the door jingled.
Inside was the familiar wooden floor and the smell of ink, and those few ivy plants, always yellowed by smoke, hung down from the ceiling basket, as if bowing down to read the newspaper.
The Polish girl at the front desk heard the door but continued to flip through her "London Lady" without looking up, mechanically saying, "Good evening, Sir, please close the door, don't let the wind in."
Arthur chuckled, closed his umbrella, shook off the rain droplets, and walked leisurely down the corridor.
The dim yellow light from each office illuminated people writing drafts, clipping articles, and organizing election pamphlets no longer needed for Whitechapel and the West Indies Pier.
Arthur's steps were unhurried, as if intentionally slowed down to savor the feeling of strategizing.
