She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. Grudgingly he admired her. 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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