The old shopkeeper led me through to the back of the shop. The room was filled with boxes and photographs of people dressed in old-fashioned clothes, holding packages in their hands. “Who are these people?” I asked. “Satisfied customers,” answered young Mr. Hopkins. “We have a very wide choice of items for sale. Whenever I serve a new customer, I always take their picture.” Mr. Hopkins pointed to an ancient camera standing next to one wall. “Now, how can I serve you?” he added. By this time, I had started to trust Mr. Hopkins and had begun to appreciate the lovely items on sale. I needed to buy Christmas presents for my family and friends, and this seemed to be the perfect place to purchase them. I spent a very pleasant hour being shown the commodities in Mr. Hopkins’shop. No matter what I asked for, Mr. Hopkins found it for me. Finally, I bought an antique jewelry box, a pair of riding boots, a leather-bound edition of the Complete Works of Mark Twain, and a sewing machine. I was very excited that I had found such a good little shop. I promised Mr. Hopkins that I would come back soon. “I will tell all my friends about your lovely place,” I told the shopkeeper. “Please do not do that, sir”, said Mr. Hopkins. “This is a special place for special people. You must keep this shop a secret.” Then he took my photograph, and handed me the picture straight away. “That was quick!” I exclaimed. I looked at the photograph. In the picture I looked proud and excited holding the presents I had bought in Mr. Hopkins’ dusty shop. On Christmas Day, my friends and relatives were delighted with the presents I had bought for them. For weeks, my brother begged me to show him where to find this wonderful little shop. I finally agreed to take him to London to show him. When we arrived in London, we walked along Oxford Street, past the department store and found...nothing. The little shop was no longer there. In its place was an empty space being used as a car park. I checked the area again. There was the music shop, and there was the department store. In between should have been Hopkins and Son, but it wasn’t there. As I was staring at the place where the shop should have been, an old policeman came along. “Are you looking for something sir?” he asked. I turned and said “I am looking for a little shop called Hopkins and Son. I thought it was here.” “Oh yes,” said the policeman. “There was a shop here once called Hopkins and Son. It sold all sorts of things, but it was knocked down over 30 years ago.” I looked again at the place where the shop had been. Then I reached into my pocket and took out the photograph that Mr. Hopkins had taken of me holding my presents in the little shop. “How strange” I exclaimed. 小题1:How did the writer like the shop?
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