‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. "All right. Would there be enough in the young man's envelope to pay the doctor and the hotel bill—and in the event of his death, enough to ship the body home? So all things pointed to the happy circumstance of setting this young fool upon his feet again, of seeing him hence upon his journey. He jumps the words out of your mouth; he takes hold of what you have to say before you have had time to express it properly. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. He installed Anna in a comfortable easy chair, and placed his own between her and the door. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation.
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