He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. The bedding was removed; Mrs. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. On the contrary. But we get over it.
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