Analysis Of The Book ' The Crucible ' By F. Scott Fitzgerald

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When Booker arrived at the dorm room, he found Tom curled up on his mattress, his face protectively covered by his arm. A heavy ache throbbed in the dark-haired officer’s heart and closing the door, he walked over to the side of Tom’s bed and sat down. His hand hovered over Hanson’s trembling body, unsure whether to offer comfort or let sleeping dogs lie. Tom was wary of contact, and he did not want to cause him more pain than he already had. Seconds ticked slowly past, and eventually his heart ruled his head. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his hand gently onto Tom’s side, but he quickly snatched it away when the younger officer visibly winced in pain. A deep frown furrowed his brow, and he rubbed an anxious hand over his lips. “Jesus, Tommy, are you okay?”

“Leave me alone,” Tom mumbled into the crook of his arm.

Pushing his lip out into a stubborn pout, Booker narrowed his eyes as he studied Tom’s quivering body. “Not until I know you’re all right.”

Tom slowly rolled onto his back, his breath catching in his throat as a sharp pain flared in his ribs. “I’m fine,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“You don’t look fine,” Booker commented softly, his eyes filling with concern. “So how ‘bout letting me have a look?”

Too tired and achy to argue, Tom started to give his consent. But the pain radiating throughout his tired, battered body suddenly overwhelmed him. He felt emasculated; he was as weak and pathetic as Harold Horshack, and he wished he was anywhere
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