“Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. " Ideas are never born; they are suggested; they are planted seeds. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice. She was greatly heartened by doing this. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. ’ ‘Are we to infer that he had a choice?’ enquired Gerald.
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