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III
AVENUE DE VILLIERS
Avenue de villiers. Dr. Munthe from
2 till 3.
Door-bell ringing and messages coming day
and night with urgent letters and calls.
Telephone, that deadly weapon in the hands of idle
women, not yet started on its nerve-racking
campaign against every hour of well-earned rest.
Consultation-room rapidly filling up with patients
of all sorts and descriptions, mostly nervous
cases, the fair sex in the majority. Many were
ill, seriously ill. I listened gravely to what they
had to say and examined them as carefully as I
could, quite sure I could help them, whatever was
the matter. Of these cases I do not feel inclined
to speak here. A day may come when I may
have something to say about them. Many were
not ill at all, and might never have become so,
had they not consulted me. Many imagined
they were ill. They had the longest tale to tell,
talked about their grandmother, their aunt or
mother-in-law, or produced from their pockets a
little paper and began to read out an interminable
list of symptoms and complaints—le malade au
petit papier, as Charcot used to say. All this
was new to me, who had no experience outside
the hospitals, where there was no time for any
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