He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. Do you understand?” “I do not,” he answered. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. The doctor and another man were by his bedside when they entered the room, and there were writing materials which had evidently been used close at hand. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms.
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