Earles asked sharply. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. " "Professional?" "Why do you wish to know?" "Professional nurses wear a sort of uniform. Too much, perhaps. At first she thought that the woman was just a servant. ” “Do you mean,” Courtlaw asked, “that from now to the end of the six months you do not wish to see us—any of us?” Her eyes were a little dim again. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision.
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