So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked far into the night. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. She had already realized that this instructress was hopelessly wrong and foggy—it is the test of the good comparative anatomist—upon the skull. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. 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. ’ ‘Like your father,’ Gerald put in deliberately.
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