And there was the
stupidity of it, because surely a child could have seen
that my mother's attack was in answer to my defence. Why
should we write a duet each saying the same thing? Well,
I'm still very confused about it all, and I don't in the
least know what I am going to do--more likely to die on
the last plank, than to get into port with my ensign
mast-high. I must think it out and let you know the
result. Come what may, one thing only is sure, and that
is that, in weal or woe, I remain, ever, your
affectionate and garrulous friend.
XIII.
1 OAKLEY VILLAS, BIRCHESPOOL, 12th June, 1882.
When I wrote my last letter, my dear Bertie, I was
still gasping, like a cod on a sand-bank, after my final
dismissal by Cullingworth. The mere setting of it all
down in black and white seemed to clear the matter up,
and I felt much more cheery by the time I had finished my
letter. I was just addressing the envelope (observe what
a continuous narrative you get of my proceedings!) when
I was set jumping out of my carpet slippers by a ring at
the bell. Through the glass panel I observed that it was
a respectable-looking bearded individual with a top-hat.
It was a patient. It MUST be a patient! Then first
I realised what an entirely different thing it is to
treat the patient of another man (as I had done with
Horton) or to work a branch of another man's practice (as
I had done with Cullingworth), and to have to do
with a complete stranger on your own account.
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