The ward was busy with plenty of new admissions, and Abigail was very pleased to see dear old Mr. Weatherspoon well enough to go home. He had recovered very well from his laser surgery, and Greg had told her that he was hopeful he had managed to remove all the tumour. “His prognosis is good,” he said. Mrs. Weatherspoon had bought in a large stone jar of homemade cider when she came to collect her husband, “Can you make sure Mr. Lincoln gets this?” she asked Abigail as together they packed her husband’s belongings in a suitcase “I’ve told him about English cider, but I don’t think he believed me when I told him how strong it was!” Abigail laughed. Mrs. Weatherspoon was looking quite concerned. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he gets it, and the message. I’ll warn him to drink it at home, when he has nowhere to go. He’ll be sorry to miss you, I know, but he’s busy operating today.” After Mr.
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