The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. “Come in. ‘You’d do the same. Courtlaw—Lady Mackinnor. He must not in any way call their attention to it. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity.
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