“He has asked to see some one,” he whispered to the doctor. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. Is this man Hill dead?” She shook her head. She fidgeted and looked away. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. I don’t. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. Here was the same Ruth who had left him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet…! On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music, paintings. ” “An appetite like yours,” he said resignedly, “is fatal to all sentiment. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket.
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