'
'Do you mean by all this that you seriously doubt whether you
will ever be able to write again?'
'In awful seriousness, I doubt it,' replied Reardon, with haggard
face.
'It strikes me as extraordinary. In your position I should work
as I never had done before.'
'Because you are the kind of man who is roused by necessity. I am
overcome by it. My nature is feeble and luxurious. I never in my
life encountered and overcame a practical difficulty.'
'Yes; when you got the work at the hospital.'
'All I did was to write a letter, and chance made it effective.'
'My view of the case, Reardon, is that you are simply ill.'
'Certainly I am; but the ailment is desperately complicated. Tell
me: do you think I might possibly get any kind of stated work to
do? Should I be fit for any place in a newspaper office, for
instance?'
'I fear not. You are the last man to have anything to do with
journalism.'
'If I appealed to my publishers, could they help me?'
'I don't see how. They would simply say: Write a book and we'll
buy it.'
'Yes, there's no help but that.
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