'
'I always thought it must be hard work writing books,' said the
nurse with a shake of her head.
'You don't understand me,' the voice pursued, dreadful as a voice
always is when speaking independently of the will. 'You think I
am only a poor creature, because I can do nothing better than
this. If only I had money enough to rest for a year or two, you
should see. Just because I have no money I must sink to this
degradation. And I am losing you as well; you don't love me!'
He began to moan in anguish.
But a happy change presently came over his dreaming. He fell into
animated description of his experiences in Greece and Italy, and
after talking for a long time, he turned his head and said in a
perfectly natural tone:
'Amy, do you know that Biffen and I are going to Greece?'
She believed he spoke consciously, and replied:
'You must take me with you, Edwin.'
He paid no attention to this remark, but went on with the same
deceptive accent.
'He deserves a holiday after nearly getting burnt to death to
save his novel. Imagine the old fellow plunging headlong into the
flames to rescue his manuscript! Don't say that authors can't be
heroic!'
And he laughed gaily.
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