texts: Sir William Cosgrove, with his complication of ills, was dying before us by inches.  He was continually tinkered up by doctors, and, what with my usual luck, he might be restored to health and live I don't know how many years.  If Cosgrove would not die, where was the use of my pursing his lady?  But my fears were to prove groundless, for on that very night, patient nature would claim her account.
labels: Good evening, Mr. James, have you done with my lady?