" Emptiness; that was the doctor's initial sensation: his vitals had been whisked out of him and the earth from under his feet. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. I shall find him yet. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said. Lucy stepped inside. CHAPTER XXI. He said. “I feared we might have a fog. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. Her father became much less distant towards his only daughter in the days that followed. So Ruth returned to her room and sorted the books and magazines the doctor had loaned her, inspected the titles and searched for pictures. ’ The listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands.
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