“It’s a bad, mad, crazily brambled snarly place riddled with rabbit holes; it’s a bedlam of bird song. Nobody goes there; I just came upon it by chance. Here! I picked this posy for you there—all wild.” “I must see this place, Scrap, is it far?” “Too far for you.” “Tell me the way.” Scrap drew a plan on my bed-quilt. Just in from her morning walk she had dropped in to tell me about this rabbit…

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The laws of Sunhill Sanatorium were primarily made for the T.B.’s. Those patients not T.B. were more or less free-lances. We were therefore pounced upon by T.B. patients as legitimate prey to question for information regarding the “how bad state” of new patients. I never walked with the ‘Ups’; otherwise I would have been asked about everybody and myself too. I heard that during the long slow walks of the ‘Ups’ I was the subject…

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A nurse from London, doing ‘Special’, was singing. The piano was at the end of the long dining-hall. ‘Ups’ were grouped around it listening. The nurse’s voice was neither good nor bad. The music carried across the court to the patients’ rooms under the wings. All sounds were common property at the San. Men and women patients lay in bed, some critical, others soothed. Nurses paused in corridors, maids stood just inside the dining-room swing…

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