Speaking of Operations (PDF, MOBI, EPUB, FB2, TEXT)
need the money. Verily, one always needs the money
when one has but recently escaped from the ministering clutches
of the modern hospital. Therefore I write.
It all dates back to the fair, bright morning when I went to call
on a prominent practitioner here in New York, whom I shall denominate
as Doctor X. I had a pain. I had had it for days. It was not a
dependable, locatable pain, such as a tummyache or a toothache is,
which you can put your hand on; but an indefinite, unsettled,
undecided kind of pain, which went wandering about from place to
place inside of me like a strange ghost lost in Cudjo's Cave. I
never knew until then what the personal sensations of a haunted
house are. If only the measly thing could have made up its mind
to settle down somewhere and start light housekeeping I think
should have been better satisfied. I never had such an uneasy
tenant. Alongside of it a woman with the moving fever would be
comparatively a fixed and stationary object.
Having always, therefore, enjoyed
