After a minute or two Paul went down and stood in the door of the glass office. The old clerk in the smoking-cap looked down over the rim of his spectacles.
“Good-morning,” he said, kindly and impressively. “You want the letters for the Spiral department, Thomas?”
Paul resented being called “Thomas”. But he took the letters and returned to his dark place, where the counter made an angle, where the great parcel-rack came to an end, and where there were three doors in the corner. He sat on a high stool and read the letters — those whose handwriting was not too difficult. They ran as follows: