A Strange Greeting, a True Feeling Last week I was invited to a doctor’s meeting at the Ruth hospital for incurables. In one of the wards a patient, an old man, got up shakily from his bed and moved towards me. I could see that he hadn't long to1 , but he came up to me and placed his right foot close mine on the floor. “Frank!” I cried in astonishment. He couldn’t 2 , as I knew, but all the time 3 his foot against mine. My 4 raced back more than thirty years to the 5 days of 1941, when I was a student in London. The 6 was an air-raid shelter, in which I and about hundred other people slept every night. Two of the regulars were Mrs. West and her son Frank.