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The medical man stared at him without any sympathy for some seconds. He
was reflecting how excellent it was that there were no more Bindons to
carry on that line of pathos. He felt quite optimistic. Then he turned
to his telephone and ordered up a prescription from the Central
Pharmacy.
He was interrupted by a voice behind him. "By God!" cried Bindon; "I'll
have her yet."
The physician stared over his shoulder at Bindon's expression, and then
altered the prescription.
So soon as this painful interview was over, Bindon gave way to rage. He
settled that the medical man was not only an unsympathetic brute and
wanting in the first beginnings of a gentleman, but also highly
incompetent; and he went off to four other practitioners in succession,
with a view to the establishment of this intuition. But to guard against
surprises he kept that little prescription in his pocket. With each he
began by expressing his grave doubts of the first doctor's intelligence,
honesty and professional knowledge, and then stated his symptoms,
suppressing only a few more material facts in each case. These were
always subsequently elicited by the doctor. In spite of the welcome
depreciation of another practitioner, none of these eminent specialists
would give Bindon any hope of eluding the anguish and helplessness that
loomed now close upon him. To the last of them he unburthened his mind
of an accumulated disgust with medical science. "After centuries and
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