story?'

It was the tone of friendly remonstrance, not exactly of
affection, not at all of tender solicitude.

Reardon had risen and wished to approach her, but could not do so
directly. He moved to another part of the room, then came round
to the back of her chair, and bent his face upon her shoulder.

'Amy--'

'Well.'

'I think it's all over with me. I don't think I shall write any
more.'

'Don't be so foolish, dear. What is to prevent your writing?'

'Perhaps I am only out of sorts. But I begin to be horribly
afraid. My will seems to be fatally weakened. I can't see my way
to the end of anything; if I get hold of an idea which seems
good, all the sap has gone out of it before I have got it into
working shape. In these last few months, I must have begun a
dozen different books; I have been ashamed to tell you of each
new beginning. I write twenty pages, perhaps, and then my courage
fails. I am disgusted with the thing, and can't go on with it--
can't! My fingers refuse to hold the pen. In mere writing, I have
done enough to make much more than three volumes; but it's all
destroyed.'