"
On the instant I determined to probe deeper into her life, and try her
nerve, by telling a story with enough likeness to her own (if she was the
wife of Boyd Madras) to affect her acutely; though I was not sure I could
succeed. A woman who triumphs over sea-sickness, whom steam from the
boilers never affects, nor the propeller-screw disturbs, has little to
fear from the words of a man who is neither adroit, eloquent, nor
dramatic. However, I determined to try what I could do. I said: "I fancy
you would like something in the line of adventure; but my career has not
run in that direction, so I shall resort to less exciting fields, and, I
fear, also, a not very cheerful subject."
"Oh, never mind!" said she. "What you wish, so long as it is not
conventional and hackneyed. But I know you will not be prosy, so go on,
please."
"Well," I began, "once, in the hospital, I attended a man--Anson was his
name--who, when he thought he was going to die, confided to me his life's
secret. I liked the man; he was good-looking, amiable, but hopelessly
melancholy. He was dying as much from trouble as disease.
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