On the wall were
many colored charts showing various portions of the human anatomy
and what ailed them. Directly in front of me was a very thrilling
illustration, evidently copied from an oil painting, of a liver
in a bad state of repair. I said to myself that if I had a liver
like that one I should keep it hidden from the public eye--I would
never permit it to sit for it's portrait. Still, there is no
accounting for tastes. I know a man who got his spleen back from
the doctors and now keeps it in a bottle of alcohol on the what-not
in the parlor, as one of his most treasured possessions, and
sometimes shows it to visitors. He, however, is of a very saving
disposition.
Presently a lady secretary, who sat behind a roll-top desk in a
corner of the room, lifted a forefinger and silently beckoned me
to her side. I moved over and sat down by her; she took down my
name and my age and my weight and my height, and a number of other
interesting facts that will come in very handy should anyone ever
be moved to write a complete history of my early life.
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