“She has not been,” I persisted, for, indeed, I could deny her apparition with truth.

“The old symptoms are there,” he affirmed: “a particular pale, and what the Scotch call a ‘raised’ look.”

He was so obstinate, I thought it better to tell him what I really had seen. Of course with him it was held to be another effect of the same cause⁠—it was all optical illusion⁠—nervous malady, and so on. Not one bit did I believe him; but I dared not contradict; doctors are so self-opinionated, so immovable in their dry, materialist views.

Rosine brought the shawl, and I was bundled into the carriage.