Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. Manning told her he loved beauty, and extorted a similar admission from her; he then expatiated upon his own love of beauty. Then a third secretarial opening occurred and renewed her hopes again: a position as amanuensis—with which some of the lighter duties of a nurse were combined— to an infirm gentleman of means living at Twickenham, and engaged upon a great literary research to prove that the “Faery Queen” was really a treatise upon molecular chemistry written in a peculiar and picturesquely handled cipher. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. She turned up dead after about eight weeks and it broke my heart.
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