The contemplation of that last beatitude was too much for the poor fellow; he fell back, faint on the pillow, and the shop–blind, untucked by his blissful emotions, rattled its rings on the floor.
“Blow me if I can stand it,” cried Issachar Jupp, going down three stairs at a step; and when he came back his face looked clearer, and he said something about a noggin. Mrs. Ducksacre bolted after him, for business must be attended to.
“Will he ever be right again, poor fellow? Dr. Tink, I implore you to tell me your opinion sincerely.”
“Then I cannot say that I think he will. Still, I have some hopes of it. Much will depend upon the original strength of the cerebellum, and the regularity of his previous habits. If he has led a wild, loose life, he has no chance whatever of sanity.”
“No, he has led a most healthy life—temperate, gentle, and equable. His brain has always been clear and vigorous, without being too creative. He was one of the soundest scholars for his age I have ever met with.”
“But he had some terrible blow, eh?”
“Oh yes, a most terrible blow.”
John thought what a terrible blow it would be to his own lifeʼs life, if the issue went against him, and for tears he could ask no more.