to at believe phosphates the so physician same can seldom it of is scoffs

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The Yellow Wallpaper By Charlotte Perkins Gilman It is very (1) _ _ _ _ _ _ that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer. A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height (2) _ _ romantic felicity—but that would be asking too much of fate! Still I will proudly declare that there (3) _ _ something queer about it. Else, why should (4) _ _ be let so cheaply? And why have stood (5) _ _ long untenanted? John laughs (6) _ _ me, of course, but one expects that in marriage. John is practical in (7) _ _ _ extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he (8) _ _ _ _ _ _ openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures. John is a physician, and perhaps—(I would not say it (9) _ _ a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind)—perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster. You see, he does not (10) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ I am sick! And what (11) _ _ _ one do? If a (12) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ of high standing, and one’s own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency—what is one to do? My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the (13) _ _ _ _ thing. So I take (14) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ or phosphites—whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to “work” until I am well again.