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40 Then collected, and very precise: "Disgusting metathesis!—No, that is not the word"—

"Come along, please, sir," whispered the old woman's voice plaintively.

  The pillow and the counterpane were damp when he awoke, late, after a night of worried tossing. Fog, white and cold, filled the chamber as with smoke, and drifted so thickly past the window that he could see only the dim outlines of a little garden below; a few shrubs, a soft-colored tangle of sweet peas, and the high heads of golden glow shining through the white obscurity. Out of the fog came the smell of seaweed and the faint noise of waves.

Quickly putting on his damp clothes, he hurried downstairs, in some disquietude as to the time of day. No one met him in the little hall of the butternut paneling. A breakfast table still waited, white and shining, beside a fire that roared in the wide chimney; and in the corner a tall clock beat heavily toward 