I had not far to seek for him: he stood waiting in the passage, for the cooling of his brose.

However, chronic silent microhemorrhages were thought to be the main culprit [1, 28, 30 –33 ].

Some illsome swain / Doth plant the prickly thorn amid Love's bloom, / To sorrow turned!

The sidewalks were full of people hurrying toward the Common—women in pink pussy hats, men pushing strollers, kids laughing and running. I saw a little girl riding on her father's shoulders while clutching a handlettered sign that read, I FIGHT LIKE A GIRL.