Now he's churning out science the way you and I only dream we could make our words flow out onto the page. He is flicking things with spindly fingers, slicing thin cuts with a thin blade along a thin line. His is a tangible magic, something in the flecks of starlit genius in his eyes, or in the shine of the smooth dark pin that holds back his hair. Do you see the way the tools and chemicals and all manner of dead things come to life in his hands? Whatever he is researching is surely within his grasp whatever he is inventing will surely burst forth at any moment now in a shower of brilliance. He will throw up his right hand triumphantly and shout something in French.
Surely his background must be impossibly posh. His father collects bear rugs or elk heads or vice versa or both, sitting in a study that one describes in words steeped in leather and mahogany, peering over his spectacles with tired but piercing eyes. His mother is thin and fragile and heartbreakingly pretty. Both of
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