Vincent van Gogh Olive grove painting

Vincent van Gogh Olive grove paintingThomas Kinkade Victorian Christmas paintingThomas Kinkade Lamplight bridge painting
And after what happened yesterday, I’d wager that you know his file better than anyone.”“Backward and forward,” O’Brien confirmed.Taking the paper cup to the waste can, Ethan said, “Is there anything in the file that you’d consider unusual?”“I can’t find a single misstep in diagnosis, treatment, or in the death-certification protocols.”“out of the coma for a period, but he didn’t. Some attributed the problem to a machine malfunction. It wasn’t.”“Malfunction? What machine?”“The EEG.”“The machine that records his brain waves.”O’Brien chewed his lip.“Doctor?”The physician met Ethan’s eyes. He sighed. He pushed his chair away from the table and got up. “It’ll be better if you actually see it yourself.”That’s not what I mean.” He tossed the crumpled cup in the can and paced, looking at the floor. “I’m sincere when I tell you that I’m [350] convinced you and the hospital are utterly blameless. When I say ‘unusual,’ what I really mean is ... strange, uncanny.”“Uncanny?”“Yeah. I don’t know how to put a finer point on it.”Dr. O’Brien remained silent so long that Ethan stopped pacing and looked up from the floor.The physician chewed on his lower lip, staring at the piles of documents.“There was something,” Ethan guessed. He returned to the table, sat in the orange torture device. “Something uncanny, all right.”“It’s here in the file. I didn’t bring it up. It’s meaningless.”“What?”“It could be misconstrued as evidence that he came