"
"She sent me here because it happens to be a year of famine--what is
commonly called a hard season--and she stitched the little blasted
doctor to me that I might die legitimately under medical advice. Isn't
that very like murder--isn't it?"
"Ah, my dear friend, thank God that you are not a parson, having a
handsome wife and a handsome curate, with the gout to support you and
keep you comfortable. You would then feel that there are other twinges
worse than those of the gout."
"Ay, but is there anything wrong about your head?"
"Heaven knows. About a twelvemonth ago I felt as if there were two
sprouts budding out of my forehead, but on putting up my hand I
could feel nothing. It was as smooth as ever. It must have been
hypochondriasis. The curate, though, is a handsome dog, and, like
yourself, it was my wife sent me here."
"Is your wife a cripple?"
"Faith, anything but that."
"How is her tongue? No paralysis in that quarter?"
"On the contrary, she is calm and soft-spoken, and perfectly sweet and
angelic in her manner."
"But was it in consequence of the famine she sent you here? Toast and
water!--toast and water! O Lord!"
This dialogue took place in Manifold's lodgings, where Topertoe, aided
by a crutch and his servant, was in the habit of visiting him.
Pages:
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597