And so the splendid schemes of Ralph Dewey and Company went on
prospering, while he grew daily in self-importance, and in offensive
superciliousness toward men from whom he had nothing to expect. In
my own case I had little to complain of, as my contact with him was
generally professional, and under circumstances that caused a
natural deference to my skill as a physician.
Nothing out of the ordinary range of things transpired until towards
Christmas, when my wife received a note from Mrs. Dewey, asking her
as a special favor to call at the Allen House. She was there in half
an hour after the note came to hand.
I was at home when she returned, and saw the moment I looked into
her face that she had been the witness of something that had moved
her deeply.
"Is anything wrong with Mrs. Dewey?" I asked.
"Yes." Her countenance took on a more serious aspect.
"In what respect?"
"The story cannot be told in a sentence. I received a note from her
as you are aware. Its earnest brevity forewarned me that the call
involved something of serious import; and I was not mistaken in this
conclusion.
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