The doctor walked over to the bed, folded his arms across his chest and stared down into the unabashed eyes of his patient. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. Again he rushed. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous.
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