144 I think he heard about the backpack and the spitballs finally. Melusine shrieked an imprecation, and ran the length of the aisle, searching for the weapon she had thrown. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. Ovarian cancer. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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