I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. It slipped out—as did that “she”. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. “Will he die?” she asked.
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