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Chapter 10 WHEN THE WIND BLOWS.

Word Count: 1231    |    Released on: 01/12/2017

ps that jut out on the sidewalk. There the Doctor's carriage stopped, and in its front room he found Mary in bed again, as ill as ever. A humble German woman, living in the a

help the poor," th

the patient's pillow. He looked about upon the small, cheaply fu

and flattened out as though Juggernaut had rolled over her, her eyes sh

nd upon her forehead. "

to tell him all that had happened,-"had taken care of herself all along," she said,

tly checked her an

; "I will; but-just one thing

el

oh

ere, only you wouldn't let h

ent, and he sm

is business

trouble to maintain that ancient truism. She was going to speak again, but the Do

he whispered,

rds, "only the tardy attendant of offended nature." When he dropped hi

ve me?" sh

"we'll do that-th

as he uttered the latter clause

y, but I'm s

essed the hand

ne and then the other spoke. The Doctor heard with interest Richling's full account of all that had occurred since he had met them last together. Mary's eyes filled with merriment when John t

ing the small, weak hand that lay near him on t

king at his wife, "we mustn't be surprised at

going to assent at all? She seemed about to speak.

blows, the cra

heavy-eyed "Humph!" and

words had escaped his ear. The Doctor

he wall with a disconcerted look, as if the smile might end in tears. For herein lay the ver

and then ceased. Richling dropped in one morning at N

into actual contact with a man of his own years, who, wi

ase or two passed between them. But as Narcisse delivered the receipted bill, with an elabor

ll excuse the

he paper; the penma

n this?" he asked. "Why, I wi

is,-I nevva 'ite to the satizfagtion of my abil'ty soon in th

Richling; "why,

learn that! You will be aztonizh' to see in 'ow many diffe'n' fawm' I can make my 'an'-a-'iting to appeah. That paz thoo my fam'ly, in fact, Mistoo Itchlin. My hant, she's got a honcle w'at use' to be cluck in a bank, w'at co

is large and legible, but not well ada

not to be, with that face. He is my favo'ite poet, that Lawd By'on. Moze people pwefeh 'im to Shakspere, in fact. Well, you muz go? I am ve'y 'appy to meck yo' acquaintanze, Mistoo Itchlin, seh. I am so'y Doctah Seveeah is not theh pwesently. The negs time you call, Mistoo Itchlin, you muz not be too much aztonizh to fine me gone from yeh. Yesseh. He's got to haugment me ad the en' of that

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