You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. He felt no pain from this cowardly kick. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. The walls of the room were lined with shelves, on which were glass jars, retorts, countless bottles and many appliances of surgical science.
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