In certain quarters of the City and its neighbourhood, Mr Jobling was,
as we have already seen in some measure, a very popular character. He
had a portentously sagacious chin, and a pompous voice, with a rich
huskiness in some of its tones that went directly to the heart, like a
ray of light shining through the ruddy medium of choice old burgundy.
His neckerchief and shirt-frill were ever of the whitest, his clothes of
the blackest and sleekest, his gold watch-chain of the heaviest, and
his seals of the largest. His boots, which were always of the brightest,
creaked as he walked. Perhaps he could shake his head, rub his hands,
or warm himself before a fire, better than any man alive; and he had a
peculiar way of smacking his lips and saying, 'Ah!' at intervals while
patients detailed their symptoms, which inspired great confidence. It
seemed to express, 'I know what you're going to say better than you do;
but go on, go on.' As he talked on all occasions whether he had anything
to say or not, it was unanimously observed of him that he was 'full of
anecdote;' and his experience and profit from it were considered, for
the same reason, to be something much too extensive for description.
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