.1. It's Miss Sommers' turn to make tea today.Miss Sommers was the most junior and least efficient typist.She is not young, and her face is gentle and worried, like a sheep.Before the water boiled, Miss Sommers was pouring water to make the tea leaves, but she couldn't tell whether the kettle was boiling or not.She had many troubles in her life, and this was one of them. She poured the tea, placed the cups on each saucer, and added two soft, sweet biscuits to each. Miss Griffiths, the able-bodied typing director, grizzled and stern, had worked for Consolidated Investment Trust for sixteen years, and snapped, "Sommers, the water isn't boiling!" Zhang Duolu's meek face flushed red, and she said, "Oh, God, I thought the water was boiling this time."

Miss Griffiths thought to herself: "She might be able to work another month while we're busy... Really! This idiot messed up our letters to the 'Eastern Development Company' - the job was really simple , and she's so stupid to make tea. If it weren't for the clever typist being so hard to find—the biscuit lid wasn't closed last time. Really—” Miss Griffith's indignant currents of thought were often interrupted, and this one was no exception. At this moment Miss Grosvenor came in with great pomp and circumstance to make Mr. Fortescue's "holy tea."

Mr. Fortescue also has different teas, different chinaware and special biscuits. Only the water from the kettle and the tap in the cloakroom is the same.This time it was Mr. Fortescue's tea, and the water was of course boiling.Miss Grosvenor was in charge of the boiling. Miss Grosvenor was a very charming fair-haired beauty.She was wearing a luxurious little black suit, and her pretty calves were wrapped in the best and most expensive black nylon stockings. She didn't bother to talk to people, didn't bother to look at them, and strode across the typing room. These typists can be like cockroaches.Miss Grosvenor was Mr. Fortescue's special private secretary; there were rumors that she was having an affair with the boss, but it was not true.Mr. Fortescue's recent step-wife, who is attractive and spends money, attracts 100% of his attention.Miss Grosvenor was to Mr. Fortescue only one of the necessary decorations of the office--the decorations here are all very luxurious and expensive.

Miss Grosvenor—returning with a tray as if offering an offering.She walked through the inner office and the reception room where important customers sat and talked, through the front room she used herself, and finally knocked lightly on the door, and entered the temple of the temple, which was the office of Mr. Fortescue. . It was a large room, with a shiny parquet floor and rich oriental rugs.The interior is embedded with light-colored wooden lattice, and there are several large woolen chairs covered with light-colored soft leather.The center and focal point of the interior is a large maple desk, behind which Mr. Fortescue sits.

Mr. Fortescue lacked momentum for this office, but he did his best.He was bulky and floppy, with a shiny bald head; he looked unnatural in baggy tweed for a downtown office.He frowned at the pile of papers on his desk as Miss Grosvenor slid swan-like to his side.She put the tray on the table at his elbow, whispered flatly, "Your tea, Mr. Fortescue," and took her leave. Mr. Fortescue responded with a muffled grunt. Miss Grosvenor sat down at her desk again, and went on with the work at hand.She made two phone calls, changed letters she had typed for Mr. Fortescue to sign, and answered the phone again.

She said haughtily, "I'm afraid that's impossible now. Mr. Fortescue is in a meeting." She put down the receiver and looked at the clock.It is ten past eleven. At this moment, an unusual sound came from Mr. Fortescue's office, penetrating the soundproof door.It was muffled, but a scream of suffocation could be heard.At this moment the electric bell on Miss Grosvenor's desk rang.Long, desperately calling people.Miss Grosvenor, momentarily petrified, stood up hesitantly. Whenever something unexpected happens, she panics.But as usual she went like a statue to Mr. Fortescue's door, knocked and went in.

The scene in front of her made her panic even more.The boss behind the big table seemed to contort his face in pain.His spasms look really scary. Miss Grosvenor said, "Oh, my God, Mr. Fortescue, are you sick?" Then she felt stupid for asking.Mr. Fortescue must be very ill.As she approached him, his body was still cramping with pain. He opened his mouth and spoke intermittently. "Tea—what the hell are you putting in tea—please—seek a doctor—" Miss Grosvenor slipped out of the room quickly.She's no longer the pompous blonde secretary - just a freaked out woman. She ran into the typing room and shouted:

"Mr. Fortescue is ill--dying--we must get a doctor--he looks terrible--I believe he is dying." Everyone reacted quickly, but differently. Miss Bell, the youngest typist, said: "If he has epilepsy, we should put a cork in his mouth." Who has a cork?No one has a cork. Miss Sommers said: "At his age, he may have had a stroke." Miss Griffith said: "We've got to get a doctor—at once." However, her usual efficiency cannot be brought into play. She has served for 16 years and has never invited a doctor to the office.She has her own doctor, but unfortunately lives in the small town of Streisand.

Where is the doctor nearby? Nobody knows.Miss Bell grabbed a phone book and started looking up "D" "Doctor class" under Alphabet.It's a pity that this is not a classified phone book. Doctors are not automatically listed together like taxi drivers.Someone mentioned a hospital—but which one?Miss Sommers insisted: "Go to the right hospital, or they won't come. I mean, because of the 'National Health System', it has to be in this area." It was suggested to dial 999, but Miss Griffith was taken aback and said it would be inappropriate that the police would come.They are a group of smart women who, as British nationals enjoying universal medical benefits, are so ignorant of the correct measures.Miss Bell looks for the "Ambulance" category under the letter "A".Miss Griffith said:

"He's got his own doctor—he must have a doctor." Someone ran to find a private address book, and Miss Griffith directed the office boy to find a doctor—anywhere, whatever.She found Sir Edwin Sandman in Harley Street in her private address book.Miss Grosvenor collapsed on a chair, weeping quietly, her tone was not as haughty as usual: "I make tea as usual - really - there can be no problem." Miss Griffith stopped and rested her hands on the dial of the telephone. "something wrong? Why do you say that? " "He said—Mr. Fortescue—he said there was something wrong with the tea—"

Miss Griffith didn't know whether to dial the Welbeck desk or 999. Miss Bell was young and hopeful: "We ought to give him some mustard and some water--quick. No mustard in the office?" There is no wasabi in the office. A few moments later two different ambulances pulled up in front of the building and Dr Isaacs of Bethna Green and Sir Edwin Sandman of Harley Street met in the lift.It turned out that the phone and the office boy were both functional.