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VIII
A MESSAGE FROM THE DEEP SEA
The Whitechapel Road, though redeemed by scattered relics of a more
picturesque past from the utter desolation of its neighbour the
Commercial Road, is hardly a gay thoroughfare. Especially at its eastern
end, where its sordid modernity seems to reflect the colourless lives of
its inhabitants, does its grey and dreary length depress the spirits of
the wayfarer. But the longest and dullest road can be made delightful by
sprightly discourse seasoned with wit and wisdom, and so it was that, as
I walked westward by the side of my friend John Thorndyke, the long,
monotonous road seemed all too short.
We had been to the London Hospital to see a remarkable case of
acromegaly, and, as we returned, we discussed this curious affection,
and the allied condition of gigantism, in all their bearings, from the
origin of the "Gibson chin" to the physique of Og, King of Bashan.
"It would have been interesting," Thorndyke remarked as we passed up
Aldgate High Street, "to have put one's finger into His Majesty's
pituitary fossa--after his decease, of course.
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