"Pour on: I will endure," as poor Lear
says.
As for Dr. Terry, he was pictorial, but null; effete; emptied of brains
by all-scooping-Time. If he had been detained that day at Drayton House,
and Frank Beverley sent back in his place to Whitehall, it would have
mattered little to him, less to the nation, and nothing to mankind.
At last Mr. Bartlett gave Alfred some hopes he was taking in the truth;
for he tore a leaf out of his memorandum-book, wrote on it, and passed it
to Dr. Terry. The ancient took it with a smile, and seemed to make an
effort to master it, but failed; it dropped simultaneously from his
finger and his mind.
Not a question was put to Alfred; so he was fain to come to an end; he
withdrew suddenly, and caught Mrs. Archbold at the keyhole. "Noble
adversary!" said he, and stalked away, and hid himself hard by: and no
sooner did the inspectors come out, and leave the coast clear, than he
darted in and looked for the paper Mr. Bartlett had passed to Dr. Terry.
He found it on the floor: and took it eagerly up; and full of hope, and
expectation, read these words:
WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE STUFF THE MATRON'S GOWN IS MADE OF? I SHOULD LIKE
TO BUY MRS.
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