"Why, Francie, it was the best she could do," he said; "for when he is
able to read it will send him to sleep."
He was still turning over the leaves of the first volume.
"Oh, look here," he cried. "Here is the dedication: 'To Octavius Quirk,
Esq., M.A., in sincere gratitude for much kindly help and
encouragement.' Now, that is very indiscreet. The log-rollers don't like
books being dedicated to them; it draws the attention of the public and
exposes the game. Ah, well, not many members of the public will see
_that_ dedication!"
A great change, however, was now imminent. Saying as little as
possible--indeed, making all kinds of evasions and excuses, so as not to
alarm the women-folk--old Dr. Moore intimated that he thought it
advisable he should sit up this night with Lionel; and Maurice, though
he promised Francie he would go home as soon as she and the old lady had
left, was too restless to keep his word. They feared, they hoped--they
knew not what. Would the exhausted system hold out any longer against
the wasting ravages of this fell disease, or succumb and sink into coma
and death? Or would Nature herself step in, and with her gentle fingers
close the tired eyes and bring restoring sleep and calm? Maurice meant
to go home, but could not.
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