" Emptiness; that was the doctor's initial sensation: his vitals had been whisked out of him and the earth from under his feet. I was among the common herd in the place below, but I took good care to see you. He proceeded to the deck, where Ruth and McClintock were waiting for him by the ladder. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. He reached over and took her hand. But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede.
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