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The weary old nineteenth century had advanced into the last twenty years of its life.
Towards two o’clock in the afternoon, Ovid Vere (of the Royal College of Surgeons) stood at the w...
The weary old nineteenth century had advanced into the last twenty years of its life.
Towards two o’clock in the afternoon, Ovid Vere (of the Royal College of Surgeons) stood at the window of his consulting-room in London, looking out at the summer sunshine, and the quiet dusty street.
He had received a warning, familiar to the busy men of our time — the warning from overwrought Nature, which counsels rest after excessive work. With a prosperous career before him, he had been compelled (at only thirty-one years of age) to ask a colleague to take charge of his practice, and to give the brain which he had cruelly wearied a rest of some months to come. On the next day he had arranged to embark for the Mediterranean in a friend’s yacht.
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