小编❥(^_-)：gly68375   gly68375

职场黄金跳槽课hth

唯❤：gly68375   唯❤：gly68375

唯❤：gly68375   唯❤：gly68375

小编❥(^_-)：gly68375 gly68375

声明：资源收集于网络，仅用于试学及购买课程之参考，切勿用于其他用途，请支持购买正版课程！如若侵权，请留言告知删除，谢谢！

-----以下忽略，为内容填充-----

“What made you come to me, any discomfort or pain?”

“None. I simply feel tired all the time.”

Dr. Dudley shrugged. “So do I! Sleep well?”

“Almost too much.”

“Eat well?”

“In every sense of the word, well. I am my own chef.”

“Always a gourmet, and never anything wrong with your digestive tract! I wish you’d ask me to dine with you some night. Any of that sherry left?”

“A little. I use it plentifully.”

“I’ll bet you do! But why did you think there was something wrong with you? Low in your mind?”

“No, merely low in energy. Enjoy doing nothing. I came to you from a sense of duty.”

“How about travel?”

“I shrink from the thought of it. As I tell you, I enjoy doing nothing.”

“Then do it! There’s nothing the matter with you. Follow your inclination.”

St. Peter went home well satisfied. He did not mention to Dr. Dudley the real reason for his asking for a medical examination. One doesn’t mention such things. The feeling that he was near the conclusion of his life was an instinctive conviction, such as we have when we waken in the dark and know at once that it is near morning; or when we are walking across the country and suddenly know that we are near the sea.

Letters came every week from France. Lillian and Louie alternated, so that one or the other got off a letter to him on every fast boat . . . Louie told him that wherever they went, when they had an especially delightful day, they bought him a present. At Trouville, for instance, they had laid in dozens of the brilliant rubber casquettes he liked to wear when he went swimming. At Aix-les-Bains they found a gorgeous dressing-gown for him in a Chinese shop. St. Peter was happy in his mind about them all. He was glad they were there, and that he was here. Their generous letters, written when there were so many pleasant things to do, certainly deserved more than one reading. He used to carry them out to the lake to read them over again. After coming out of the water he would lie on the sand, holding them in his hand, but somehow never taking his eyes off the pine-trees, appliquéed against the blue water, and their ripe yellow cones, dripping with gum and clustering on the pointed tips like a mass of golden bees in swarming-time. Usually he carried his letters home unread.

His family wrote constantly about their plans for next summer, when they were going to take him over with them. Next summer? The Professor wondered . . . Sometimes he thought he would like to drive up in front of Notre Dame, in Paris, again, and see it standing there like the Rock of Ages, with the frail generation breaking about its base. He hadn’t seen it since the war.