The condemned man smoked a hearty breakfast.
"Not all of us physicians deserve such a keel-hauling." He laughed at
the way I'd rubbed the nose of his trade in its sins and pomposities.
This was to show me his nose was immaculate.
"Sure."
He lighted his own and smoked the way doctors often do--like schoolkids
with Cubebs.
"Personally, I think it's a shame a man with ability like yours for
putting words together should get mixed up in this Jungian stuff."
The place had been done by a decorator--a decorator who saw a surgeon's
waiting room as something soothing in ivories and sepia and faint gold.
And putting words together is just a trick, too; it doesn't involve
knowledge or sense--just lucky knack.