His brows drew a little nearer together. "Tom! Hey, Tom!" The Chinese cook thrust his head into the dining room. We are going to have this chap writing books one of these days. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know.
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