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It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. Spiders came out of their hiding places to commune in windows, industriously spinning their own designs over the stained glass. ‘But you are idiot. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. She heard this standard expression of a strong soul wrung with a critical coldness that astonished herself. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. 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.
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