“Forgive me,” he said. All this while he was arranging the medicines on the stand and jotting down his instructions on a chart sheet. This woman, contrary to his custom, he answered. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed. I am a man—of a sort of experience.
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