For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. I will go with you. And because he knew it was a burden, there was no gaiety upon the doctor's face; neither was there speech on his tongue. What with these converging roofs that shut out all but a hand's breadth of the sky, sunshine was rare at this point.
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