One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. If they hadn't sent for me, you'd have pegged out before morning. But those days are over—quite over. “How unkind!” she exclaimed.
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