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Various

"The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 110, December, 1866 A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics"

No such good luck, poor little victim!
'_Only_ nervous,' as people say. I can't find out that there's much else
the matter. I utterly hate these cases. She ought to be under the care
of a sensible woman; and if there only was such a one in the profession,
I'd guarantee her her hands full of patients out of my practice alone."
"A female physician!" cried I, in horror.
"O Phil! what will you say next?" exclaimed his wife, laughing.
"Well, only wait till you're a male physician, then, and see," returned
he, jumping into his chaise, and relieving his own nerves with a crack
of the whip, which put new vivacity into those of De Quincey.
I made ready at once, for the day was sulky. It had been weeping, and
had not yet begun to smile.
Nelly lived with her uncle, the apothecary, Mr. Wardour, and his widowed
sister, Mrs. Cumberland. As I neared the door, I heard her voice, which
was not dulcet, from the parlor-kitchen: "What's this here winder open
for?"
"It felt so close in here," was the plaintive little answer; "and the
Doctor said I ought to have the air."
"Does he think we can afford wood enough to warm all out-doors with?"
I knocked; but Mrs. Cumberland was deaf, and went on: "My sakes alive,
child! what's all this?"
"The stewed damsons.


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