Sir John felt that after all forty-five was not so very old. Then a third secretarial opening occurred and renewed her hopes again: a position as amanuensis—with which some of the lighter duties of a nurse were combined— to an infirm gentleman of means living at Twickenham, and engaged upon a great literary research to prove that the “Faery Queen” was really a treatise upon molecular chemistry written in a peculiar and picturesquely handled cipher. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. When he recovered his mental faculties, he would lie there, neutral; they could save him or let him die, as they pleased; and the doctor knew that he would wear himself out forcing his own will to live into this neutrality. “Showtime!” Martin cried. Both of them would be committing novel and unforgettable acts. It wasn’t pretty. She stepped into his arms. I can't invent; the thing won't come. He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done.
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