"Please sit down in that chair there.

Maybe I won't be able to cure you, but I promise you I can direct you to the best place to live for what's the matter with you .-- Miss Judson!" And while the trained-nurse-apparelled young woman seated Dag Daughtry in the enamelled surgeon's chair and leaned him back under direction, and while Doctor Emory dipped his finger-tips into the strongest antiseptic his office possessed, behind Doctor Emory's eyes, in the midst of his brain, burned the image of a desired Irish terrier who did turns in sailor-town cabarets, was rough-coated, and answered to the full name of Killeny Boy.
"You've got rheumatism in more places than your little finger," he assured Daughtry.

"There's a touch right here, I'll wager, on your forehead.

One moment, please.

Move if I hurt you, Otherwise sit still, because I don't intend to hurt you.