Holding the lamp over her rigid but beautiful features, Jonathan, with some anxiety, placed his hand upon her breast to ascertain whether the heart still beat. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes.
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