" He started to pick up a sheet of manuscript, but she pushed him from the table toward the doorway; and he staggered out of the bungalow, suddenly stretched his arms, and broke into a trot. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. I never made any effort to touch them; so by and by they learned to light fearlessly on my arms and shoulders. I’m not a psycho.
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