You will have the best advice, and without delay, I
promise you."
That very evening, Mrs. Dodd sent a servant into the town with a note
like a cocked-hat for Mr. Osmond, a consulting surgeon, who bore a high
reputation in Barkington. He came, and proved too plump for that complete
elegance she would have desired in a medical attendant; but had a soft
hand, a gentle touch, and a subdued manner. He spoke to the patient with
a kindness which won the mother directly; had every hope of setting her
right without any violent or disagreeable remedies; but, when she had
retired, altered his tone; and told Mrs. Dodd seriously she had done well
to send for him in time: it was a case of "Hyperaesthesia" (Mrs. Dodd
clasped her hands in alarm), "or as unprofessional persons would say,
'excessive sensibility.'"
Mrs. Dodd was somewhat relieved. Translation blunts thunderbolts. She
told him she had always feared for her child on that score. But was
sensibility curable? Could a nature be changed?
He replied that the Idiosyncrasy could not; but its morbid excess could,
especially when taken in time.
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