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The Tobacconist
A Story
- Abstract
Clearly, having only four shillings to my name I needed a job. At least until the end of the week when, for my mother’s sweet sake, Uncle Monty might advance me some money. The porter at the medical school told me about the tobacconist’s round the corner which had the little notice in the window: Part-time Assistant Required. “Furthermore, sir,” the porter said, as an afterthought, “he’s a Jewish gentleman and that should help you.”
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