"On your brow?"
"No; on the back of my head."
"It feels like a lump of lead?"
"No; like a furnace."
"That's just what I feared," she said. "It began so with him."
"With whom?"
"My husband. He came in one day, five years ago, complaining of his head, and in three days he was a corpse."
"What?"
"Don't be afraid, sir. Maybe it isn't the same thing."
"Of course it isn't. Your husband, according to the story you told me when I took these rooms, died of fever."