“Will he live?” The doctor shook his head. But his hand was withheld by Thames. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. For freedom at least. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt.
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