G. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. . You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. It’s time she knew. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. All of which proves that the doctor also had his moments of distraction, with this difference: he was not distracted from his subject matter.
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