Supper was over. “I think that’s the right name. “Who wouldn’t be for you?” The train began to move. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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