“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. " "There was Father," suggested Angelina gently. I bear the marks of some of them about me still," he continued, taking off his wig, and laying bare a bald skull, covered with cicatrices and plates of silver. "Will you write," asked the doctor, "and tell me how you are getting along?" "Oh, yes!" "The last advice I can give you is this: excite his imagination; get him started with his writing. " "It's mine, I'll be sworn," rejoined Wood. My very sentences stumble and give way. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself.
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