She's my mealticket. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient. And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any pretence whatever, till I call. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. “Let me help you,” he begged. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it.
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