M.—No; we get the bread at the baker’s.
D.—And rather poor stuff at that. Does she ever wash?
M.—Well, no; the servants attend to that. She has too many studies you know, doctor, for that, and then—
D.—How is the patient’s appetite?
P.—Not very good; sometimes I eat a great deal too much, but the most of the time I relish nothing. I am often wanting what I cannot get; and food always distresses me, gives me acid stomach and heart-burn, and so on.
M.—Yes; she likes chalk, charcoal, slate pencils, vinegar, and all such things. She has always an appetite for these.
D.—This is a morbid, diseased appetite. Do not blame her, she cannot help that; if you or I had just such an appetite, and felt in all respects as she does, we would very likely gratify it to as great an extent. How does the patient sleep?
M.—Not very well; the bed is never right; sometimes we put on a feather bed, and then she gets fidgety and says she cannot sleep; then again we put the hair mattress over the feather bed; but this is either hard, rough, or uneven—there is always some kink in her head about the bed; it’s never right.
D.—Does she have her window open?
M.—No; she’s afraid of taking cold.