It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. It’s all very fine and all that, Vee, this freedom, but it isn’t going to work. "I feel like work," he lied. What he did not know was this: Ruth surrendered these little secrets because the doctor had warned her that the patient must be amused and interested. They stood for a moment in the passage and listened. In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't it the tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going to happen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought of annihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea of entering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his petty affairs as usual? "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through. "What is your name?" "Ruth. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. . " So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate.
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