Don't blame me, miss, if you are an object when you go to bed to-night!" With this curious introductory speech he began to read.

I was obliged to interrupt him to say the few words of explanation which the story needed.
"Before my brother begins," I said, "it may be as well to mention that he is himself the doctor who is supposed to relate this narrative.

The events happened at a time of his life when he had left London, and had established himself in medical practice in one of our large northern towns." With that brief explanation, I apologized for interrupting the reader, and Morgan began once more.
BROTHER MORGAN'S STORY of THE DEAD HAND WHEN this present nineteenth century was younger by a good many years than it is now, a certain friend of mine, named Arthur Holliday, happened to arrive in the town of Doncaster exactly in the middle of the race-week, or, in other words, in the middle of the month of September.
He was one of those reckless, rattle-pated, open-hearted, and open-mouthed young gentlemen who possess the gift of familiarity in its highest perfection, and who scramble carelessly along the journey of life, making friends, as the phrase is, wherever they go.

His father was a rich manufacturer, and had bought landed property enough in one of the midland counties to make all the born squires in his neighborhood thoroughly envious of him.

Arthur was his only son, possessor in prospect of the great estate and the great business after his father's death; well supplied with money, and not too rigidly looked after during his father's lifetime.