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 friendly doctor) said something or other, but I don't know what to make of it. Leshchetetsky (this was the former doctor) said on the other hand . . ."

Ivan Il'ich went away, went to his own room, lay down, and began to think: "Reins, renal flux," He remembered all that the doctors had told him, how his renal mischief had begun, and how it was spreading now here and now there. And by the force of the imagination he tried to understand this malady, and how to stop it and cure it. Such a very little was wanted, it seemed to him. " No, I will go again to Peter Ivanovich." (This was the friend whose friend the doctor was.) He rang, ordered them to get the carriage ready, and prepared to go.

"Where are you going, Jean?" asked his wife, with a peculiarly melancholy, and unusually kind expression.

This unusually kind expression offended him. He regarded her gloomily.

"I must go to Peter Ivanovich."

He went to this friend whose friend the doctor was, and with him he went to the doctor. He found him in and had a long talk with him.

After considering all the anatomical and physiological details which, according to the opinion of the doctor, accounted for what was going on inside him, he understood everything.

There was a patch — a tiny little patch in the lower gut. All that could be put to rights. The energy of one organ could be strengthened by diminishing the activity of another organ; healthy processes could be set going, and all would be made right He was