Then she called a hansom and drove home. The doctor's lessons, perhaps delivered with too much serious emphasis, had destroyed that buoyant confidence in her ability to take care of herself. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. “Well?” she said. Your life is like a funeral March. "Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. He played variations on this theme for the better part of an hour.
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