A House to Let

I had been living at Tunbridge Wells and nowhere else, going on for ten years, when my medical man — very clever in his profession, and the prettiest player I ever saw in my life of a hand at Long Whist, which was a noble and a princely game before Short was heard of — said to me, one day, as he sat feeling my pulse on the actual sofa which my poor dear sister Jane worked before her spine came on, and laid her on a board for fifteen months at a stretch — the most upright woman that ever lived — said to me, “What we want, ma’am, is a fillip.”