Albert Frick lay propped on the hospital bed, languid, breathing by hand. He had felt miserable; had had a couple of teeth pulled at the dentist's. Going home to his rooming-house in Evanston, Ill., outside Chicago, muggy-minded, dazed, a motor car had hit him, hurt the back of his neck a trifle. Now he was in St. Francis Hospital, Evanston.
His legs lay straight out before him under the bed blankets. But they felt crossed and he could not move them. They were paralyzed. So was his...
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