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 Like a physician who can do no good, But knows how soon another would have his fee Were he to tell the truth. Your fee for this Is in my gratitude and my affection; And I'm not eager to be calling in Another to take yours away from you, Whatever it's worth. I like to think I know. Well then, again. The carriage rolled away With him inside; and so it might have gone For ten years rolling on, with him still in it, For all it was I saw of him. Sometimes I heard of him, but only as one hears Of leprosy in Boston or New York And wishes it were somewhere else. He faded Out of my scene—yet never quite out of it: 'I shall know where you are until you die,' Were his last words; and they are the same words