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The sign on the platform said Scarford, and it seemed we were only a little south of Leeds. It was the furthest north I had been, and the fresh air, like the day before, seemed to scour my lungs of all the baleful smoke that the london industry had deposited there. I felt it was worth the cold, though I still shifted on my feet a little, wiggling my toes in my boots.
The doctor made a clicking noise with his tongue as he watched me. “You make me want to wrap my coat around you, you know, acting like you’re about to freeze to death.”
I stiffed with embarrassment under his gaze, and looked bashfully down. “Sorry, doctor.”
“Don’t be sorry about it, just come here.”
Surprised as I was, his tone was commanding, and I shuffled closer to where he was standing. He put his good arm around me and I gathered some warmth just being close to him, though half of it was from my own flush of nerves and embarrassment. I couldn’t remember a time when my own father had treated me so tenderly.
“Thank you,” I murmured appreciatively, and he just nodded as if it were nothing. And that was how we waited together under the little roof of the small country strain platform, until a few minutes later the clip clop of horses came up the road.
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