“Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. We’ll run away together, we’ll elope. So Ruth returned to her room and sorted the books and magazines the doctor had loaned her, inspected the titles and searched for pictures. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative.
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