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Good Luck By: L. T. Meade (1854-1914) |
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BY MRS. L. T. MEADE Author of Polly, A Sweet Girl Graduate, Etc.
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY CHICAGO NEW YORK 1896
GOOD LUCK
CHAPTER I. Amongst the crowd of people who were waiting in the Out Patients'
Department of the London Hospital on a certain foggy day toward the
latter end of November might have been seen an old cherry cheeked
woman. She had bright blue eyes and firm, kindly lips. She was a
little woman, slightly made, and her whole dress and appearance were
somewhat old fashioned. In the first place, she was wonderfully
pretty. Her little face looked something like a russet apple, so clear
was her complexion and so bright and true the light in her eyes. Her
hair was snow white, and rather fluffy in texture; it surrounded her
forehead like a silver halo, adding to the picturesque effect of apple
cheeks and deep blue eyes. Her attire was quaint and old fashioned.
She wore a neat black dress, made without the least attempt at
ornament; round her neck was a snowy kerchief of somewhat coarse but
perfectly clean muslin; over her shoulders a little black shawl was
folded corner ways, and pinned neatly with a large black headed pin at
her breast. A peep of the snowy handkerchief showed above the shawl;
the handkerchief vied with the white of her hair. On her head was a
drawn black silk bonnet with a tiny border of white net inside. Her
hands were clothed in white cotton gloves. She stood on the borders of
the crowd, one of them, and yet apart from them, noticeable to everyone
present by her pretty, dainty neatness, and by the look of health which
to all appearance she possessed. This had evidently been her first
visit to the Out Patients' Department. Some habitués of the place
turned and stared at her, and one or two women who stood
near burdened, pallid, ill looking women gave her a quick glance of
envy, and asked her with a certain show of curiosity what ailed her. "It's my hand, dear," was the reply. "It pains awful right up to the
shoulder." "It's rheumatis you've got, you poor thing," said one of the women who
had addressed her. "No, I don't think it's exactly that," was the reply; "but the doctor
'll tell. I can't hold my needle with the pain; it keeps me awake o'
nights. Oh, we must all have our share," she added cheerfully; "but ef
it were the will of the Almighty, I'd rayther not have my share o' pain
in my right hand." "You does needlework fer a living, I suppose?" said a man who stood
near. "Yes. I only 'opes to the Lord that my working hand isn't going to be
taken from me but there, I'll soon know." She smiled brightly at these words, and addressed one of her neighbors
with regard to the state of that neighbor's baby the child was
evidently suffering from ophthalmia, and could scarcely open its eyes. It was cold in the out patients' waiting room, and the crowd became
impatient and anxious, each for his or her turn to see the doctors who
were in attendance. At last the little woman with the white hair was
admitted to the consulting room. She was shown in by a dresser, and
found herself face to face with the doctor. He said a few words to
her, asked her some questions with regard to her symptoms, looked at
the hand, touched the thumb and forefinger, examined the palm of the
hand very carefully, and then pronounced his brief verdict. "You are suffering from what is equivalent to writers' cramp, my good
woman," he said. "Lor', sir," she interrupted, "I respec'fully think you must be
mistook. I never take a pen in my 'and oftener nor twice a year. I
aint a schollard, sir." "That don't matter," was the reply; "you use your needle a good deal." "Of course, and why shouldn't I?" "How many hours a day do you work?" "I never count the hours, sir. I work all the time that I've got. The
more I work, the more money there be, you understand." "Yes, I quite understand. Well, you must knock it off. Here! I shall
order you a certain liniment, which must be rubbed into the hand two or
three times a day... Continue reading book >>
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Genres for this book |
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Fiction |
Teen/Young adult |
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