"_An eagle, broken-winged and drooping in a cage, he gloomed upon his lot and cursed the vital force within that would not let him die._" One morning, when he had been settled in his wheeled chair, she brought out the story of the Jester's Sword, saying, tremulously, "Will you do something for me?
Jack?
Read this little book yourself.

I know you don't halfway listen to what I read any more, and I don't blame you, but this seems to have been written just on purpose for you." He took the book from her listlessly, and opened it because she wished it.

Watching him from the doorway, she waited until she saw him glance up from the opening paragraph to the watch-fob lying on the stand at his elbow.

Then he looked back at the page, with a slight show of interest, and she knew that the reference to Mars' month and the bloodstone had caught his attention as it had hers.

Then she left him alone with it, hoping fervently it would arouse in him at least a tithe of the interest it had awakened in her.
When she came back after awhile he merely handed her the book, saying in an indifferent way, "A very pretty little tale, Mary," and leaned back in his chair with closed eyes, as if dismissing it from his thoughts.