” “Six pounds. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. She’s got a great imagination. He seemed safe from the sickness, having been surrounded by the dying, he had witnessed the carnage up close and yet his health still prevailed. He lost control of the machine, was upset and nearly killed. He spent a good deal more money and time than he could afford upon the little room at the top of the house, in producing new lapidary apparatus and new microscopic accessories and in rubbing down slices of rock to a transparent thinness and mounting them in a beautiful and dignified manner. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's.
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