Care killed a
cat, a nanimal with eight lives more than a chatterbox. If you worry or
excite your brain, little Maxley, you will cook your own goose--by a
quick fire."
"Dear heart, these be unked sayings. Won't ye give me nothing to make me
better, sir?"
"No, I never tinker; I go to the root: you may buy a vile of chlorofm and
take a puff if you feel premonory symps: but a quiet brain is your only
real chance. Now slope, and send the male screw."
"Anan?"
"Your husband."
"That I will, sir. Your sarvant, doctor; your sarvant, ma'am; sarvant,
all the company.
Mrs. Dodd hoped the poor woman had nothing very serious the matter.
"Oh, it is a mortal disease," replied Sampson, as cool as a cucumber.
"She has got angina pictoris or brist-pang, a disorder that admirably
eximplifies the pretinsions of midicine t' seeince." And with this he
dashed into monologue.
Maxley's tall gaunt form came slouching in, and traversed the floor,
pounding it with heavy nailed boots. He seated himself gravely at Mrs.
Dodd's invitation, took a handkerchief out of his hat, wiped his face,
and surveyed the company, grand and calm.
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