Very few patients had underwear in the summer, and those who wore unionalls never had underwear.

[…] the Fevers of Women in Child-bed; to wit, both the Lacteal, and that called Putrid, which, by reason of its Mortality, deserves to be call’d Malignant.

When he had gone half way he turned around and stared at the scene—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid, and the despairing figure on the couch, bleeding fluently, and trying to spread a copy of Town Tattle over the tapestry scenes of Versailles.

Certainly, the individual being takes on its meaning by entering organically into a constellationally woven whole, but this whole is concrete.