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Tarkington, Booth, 1869-1946

"The Turmoil, a novel"

"They mean for you just to build up
your strength. That's what they told me the last time I went to see
you at the sanitarium. You look better than what you did then, and
that's only a little time ago. How long was it?"
"Eight months, I think."
"No, it couldn't be. I know it ain't THAT long, but maybe it was
longer'n I thought. And this last month or so I haven't had scarcely
even time to write more than just a line to ask how you were gettin'
along, but I told Edith to write, the weeks I couldn't, and I asked
Jim to, too, and they both said they would, so I suppose you've kept
up pretty well on the home news."
"Oh yes."
"What I think you need," said the mother, gravely, "is to liven up
a little and take an interest in things. That's what papa was sayin'
this morning, after we got your telegram; and that's what'll stimilate
your appetite, too. He was talkin' over his plans for you--"
"Plans?" Bibbs, turning on his side, shielded his eyes from the light
with his hand, so that he might see her better. "What--" He paused.
"What plans is he making for me, mother?"
She turned away, going back to the window to draw down the shade.


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