She was an odd mixture of bravado and baby helplessness.

To leave her to fight her terrible battle with the aid only of a theater dresser was an impossibility.

Septimus looked at her with mournful eyes, hating his futility.

Of what use was he to any God-created being?
Another man, strong and capable, any vital, deep-chested fellow that was passing along Southampton Row at that moment, would have known how to take her cares on his broad shoulders and ordain, with kind imperiousness, a course of action.

But he--he could only clutch his fingers nervously and shuffle with his feet, which of itself must irritate a woman with nerves on edge.