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Unformatted text preview: n. She took his wrist suddenly. He didn't seem to know what she was doing-that she was feeling the pulse the same way a doctor would do it. His hand was heavy and slightly cold, too cold. But the heartbeat was steady. It was OK. He wasn't nearly as sick as her own father. Her own father wasn't going to live six months. But it wasn't his heart, it was his liver. If she closed her eyes she could see the chambers of Michael's heart. She could see things so brilliant and unnameable and complex as to be like modern painting-a sprawl of daring colors and clots and lines and swelling shapes! Ah. He was OK, this man. If she did get him into bed tonight, she wouldn't kill him. "You know your problem right now?" she asked. "It's those bottles of medicine. Throw them in the trash. That much medicine will make anyone sick." "You think so?" "You're talking to Mona Mayfair, a twentyfold member of the May- fair family, who knows things that others don't know. Oncle Julien was my great-great-grandfather three times. You know what tha...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10