Bah. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. "Will you write," asked the doctor, "and tell me how you are getting along?" "Oh, yes!" "The last advice I can give you is this: excite his imagination; get him started with his writing. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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