A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. “Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. " So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate. "Won't you sit down?" "I beg your pardon! Come into the consultation office"; and the doctor led the way. It has been purchased by blood!" "What! have you cut old Wood's throat?" asked Wild, with great unconcern, as he took up the bag.
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