It ends as
abruptly as it begins, but while it is on the neighbours
know it. She shrieks, yells, sings, chivies the servant,
and skims plates out of the window at the passers-by. Of
course, it is really not funny, but pathetic and
deplorable--all the same, it is hard to keep from
laughing at the absurd contrast between her actions and
her appearance. I was called in by accident in the first
instance; but I speedily acquired some control over her,
so that now the neighbours send for me the moment the
crockery begins to come through the window. She has
a fair competence, so that her little vagaries are a help
to me with my rent. She has, too, a number of curious
jugs, statues, and pictures, a selection of which she
presents to me in the course of each of her attacks,
insisting upon my carrying them away then and there; so
that I stagger out of the house like one of Napoleon's
generals coming out of Italy. There is a good deal of
method in the old lady, however, and on her recovery she
invariably sends round a porter, with a polite note to
say that she would be very glad to have her pictures back
again.
And now I have worked my way to the point where I can
show you what I mean when I talk about fate. The medical
practitioner who lives next me--Porter is his name--is a
kindly sort of man, and knowing that I have had a long
uphill fight, he has several times put things in my way.
Pages:
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275