looks, and voice, and manner, superadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him; so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him. The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing old and slow within him, and were retreating to the last citadel, the heart rallied back—the film forsook his eyes for a moment—he looked up wistfully in my uncle Toby’s face—then cast a look upon his boy—and that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken.

Nature instantly ebbed again—the film returned to its place—the pulse fluttered—stopped—w ent on—throbbed—stopped again—moved—stopped—shall I go on? No.

From “Tristram Shandy.”