The doctor walked over to the bed, folded his arms across his chest and stared down into the unabashed eyes of his patient. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. “Dear John,” she whispered. He had need of all the inexhaustible energy of his character to support him through his toilsome walk over the wet grass, or along the slippery ploughed land. Most of them didn’t, anyhow. You know you do, Annabel. ” “It gives in a nutshell the miracle of art and the imagination. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling.
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