All his thought, all his attention, all his
faculties were drawn tight to this acute point--he must succeed; he must
accomplish the task he had set himself: life at that hour was worth
living only for that purpose. But how was success to be compelled?
He walked for a while about the streets, and then he went into a
restaurant and ordered a modest dinner. He broke and crumbled his bread
with both hands, his mind still intent on that one engrossing, acute
point. While thus he sat he heard a voice, as in a dream, say, "The very
doctor you read about. That's the second curious case he's got in a
month or so.... Oh yes--very clever; he treats them, I understand, in
the same sort of way as the famous Dr Charbon of Paris would.... I
should say so; quite as good, if not better than Charbon. I'd rather
have an English doctor any day than a French.... His name's in the
paper--_Lefevre_." Then the doctor woke to the fact that he was being
talked about. He perceived his admirers were sitting at a table a little
behind him, and he judged from what had been said that his fresh case
was already being made "copy" of in the evening papers.
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