It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. Why not? Were not his own sentiments inclined in favour of the patient? But fifty gold was fifty gold. Wood, sinking into a chair, and fanning herself violently,—"what a fluster you have put me into with your violence, to be sure! And at the very time, too, when you know I'm expecting a visit from Mr. I am no use for a clerk, because I do not understand shorthand. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. . . Even if he were an old friend, you couldn't afford to do it.
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