Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. I find you an impenetrable enigma. "But what does he mean by calling you a wanton? —you, my wife?" Enschede's hand slipped from his daughter's shoulder. Imbecile. The patient fell into a natural and refreshing sleep. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. It doesn’t matter.
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