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During the afternoon I had a telephonic message from my doctor, who asked me why I had neglected him for a fortnight and urged me to go to Harley Street at once. To humour him I went the next morning. Hunnington is a bluff, hearty fellow who feeds himself into pink floridity so as to give confidence to his patients.
I have just fallen in a faint on the floor, and Rogers has revived me with some drops Hunnington had given me in view of such a contingency. These are the last words I shall write. Life is too transcendentally humorous for a man not to take it seriously. Compared with it, Death is but a shallow jest. It is many weeks since I wrote those words which I thought were to be my last.
I said: "The man who wouldn't be good to you is an unhung villain." Then her mother joined us, and our little confidential talk came to an end. It was enough, however, to convince me that my poor little Ariadne was shedding many desperate tears in secret over her desertion. On my way home I looked in on my doctor. His name is Hunnington.
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