He stooped down quickly, and took a bottle and a case of instruments from his black bag, when once more the curious sensation came over him, and he shook his head again.
“The air is close and stifling,” he said, as he recovered himself. “I could have fancied that something brushed by my face.”
Then, bending over the prostrate figure he rapidly laid bare again, four hours quickly passed away in the gloomy vault, where the yellowish rays of the shaded lamp shone directly down upon his busy fingers, and the stony face of him who lay motionless in his deep sleep.
Four hours, and then he laid his hand upon the old sexton, who started up wildly, and extended his claw-like hands, as if about to seize him by the throat.
Volume Two—Chapter Six.
The Doctor is Nervous.
“It’s all very well, Master North, for you to come here bullying me about my health, and ordering me to go fishing, and half ruin myself with cigars,” said the curate; “but I feel disposed to retort, ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ Why, you’re as white as so much dough.”
“Nonsense!” cried the doctor hastily.