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It was a very hot summer day. The doctor's brougham had been waiting in the shade of the chestnut avenue leading to the big white house. Then a servant brought out a message.
'Morning, Jameson'—he knew the coachman. 'Stopping to luncheon—you're to go round to the stables.'
'I guessed as much. What—is he worse this morning?'
'No, not a bit of it.' Then, confidentially: 'Between ourselves, there's no more the matter with Mr. Wyatt nor there is with you nor me.'
'So I've always supposed.' If you can be surprised at anything you will not make a good coachman. 'Well—see you again later.' And
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