With such terrible real things
pressing upon me, my imagination can shape nothing substantial.
When I have laboured out a story, I suddenly see it in a light of
such contemptible triviality that to work at it is an impossible
thing.'
'You are ill, that's the fact of the matter. You ought to have
had a holiday. I think even now you had better go away for a week
or two. Do, Edwin!'
'Impossible! It would be the merest pretence of holiday. To go
away and leave you here--no!'
'Shall I ask mother or Jack to lend us some money?'
'That would be intolerable.'
'But this state of things is intolerable!'
Reardon walked the length of the room and back again.
'Your mother has no money to lend, dear, and your brother would
do it so unwillingly that we can't lay ourselves under such an
obligation.'
'Yet it will come to that, you know,' remarked Amy, calmly.
'No, it shall not come to that. I must and will get something
done long before Christmas. If only you--'
He came and took one of her hands.
'If only you will give me more sympathy, dearest.
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