Sebastian, as doctor, was constantly around the sick and the dying. One only. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. They ascended by a lift to one of the upper floors, passed through a long ward, and finally came to a bed in the extreme corner, round which a screen had been arranged. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. "I believe he is conscious," she answered. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. It’s these damned novels. CHAPTER IX.
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