"You see that bottle?" I told him I had wondered about it when we came into his office.
"Well, how many people do you know who are prepared to take a grown man into his arms and let him nurse with the bottle?
And take the chance of having the patient urinate or defecate all over him?
You look surprised. You can't understand it, can you, from way up there in your research ivory tower?
What do you know about being shut out from every human experience as our patients have been?"
I couldn't restrain a smile, and he apparently misunderstood, because he stood up and ended the conversation abruptly.
If I come back here to stay, and he finds out the whole story, I'm sure he'll understand.
He's the kind of man who would. As I drove out of Warren, I didn't know what to think.
The feeling of cold grayness was everywhere around me— a sense of resignation.
There had been no talk of rehabilitation, of cure, of someday sending these people out into the world again.
No one had spoken of hope. The feeling was of living death—or worse, of never having been fully alive and knowing.
Souls withered from the beginning, and doomed to stare into the time and space of every day.
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