In the meantime, Mrs. Cullingworth and I ran the
practice together. As a substitute for him I was a
dreadful failure. They would not believe in me in the
least. I felt that I was as flat as water after
champagne. I could not address them from the stairs, nor
push them about, nor prophesy to the anaeemic women. I
was much too solemn and demure after what they had
been accustomed to. However, I held the thing together
as best I could, and I don't think that he found the
practice much the worse when he was able to take it over.
I could not descend to what I thought was unprofessional,
but I did my very best to keep the wheels turning.
Well, I know that I am a shocking bad story-teller,
but I just try to get things as near the truth as I can
manage it. If I only knew how to colour it up, I could
make some of this better reading. I can get along when
I am on one line, but it is when I have to bring in a
second line of events that I understand what C. means
when he says that I will never be able to keep myself in
nibs by what I earn in literature.
The second line is this, that I had written to my
mother on the same night that I wrote to you last,
telling her that there need no longer be a shadow of a
disagreement between us, because everything was arranged,
and I was going to leave Cullingworth at once. Then
within a couple of posts I had to write again and
announce that my departure was indefinitely postponed,
and that I was actually doing his whole practice.
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