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account of my horrible experience; whether it is believed or not, as I said at the beginning, is a matter of complete indifference to me. I write this in London, and, in a few days, leave for Australia. I have inherited consumption from my mother, and the doctors only give me a few years to live. There I mean to pass as far away as possible from the scenes of my misery.

There is only one proof I can give of having passed through these experiences, and that is—"When the shepherds found me, in my hand I held a long lock of bluish-white hair."