How it begins
I had just made my rounds of the wards for the last time, that June evening, fifteen years ago, when Murchison, my chief, came to me with the open letter in his hand. "Here's the very chance to suit you, Haverill," he said. "Read that! A chap named Lennox, in Pennsylvania, wants a substitute for three months. Small country practice—no work of any account, I imagine—and a good holiday thrown in. Just reached me tonight, by chance." I had finished my term as interne, and was leaving the hospital the next day.
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