He would write a sentence
beginning thus: 'She took a book with a look of--;' or thus: 'A
revision of this decision would have made him an object of
derision.' Or, if the period were otherwise inoffensive, it ran
in a rhythmic gallop which was torment to the ear. All this, in
spite of the fact that his former books had been noticeably good
in style. He had an appreciation of shapely prose which made him
scorn himself for the kind of stuff he was now turning out. 'I
can't help it; it must go; the time is passing.'
Things were better, as a rule, in the evening. Occasionally he
wrote a page with fluency which recalled his fortunate years; and
then his heart gladdened, his hand trembled with joy.
Description of locality, deliberate analysis of character or
motive, demanded far too great an effort for his present
condition. He kept as much as possible to dialogue; the space is
filled so much more quickly, and at a pinch one can make people
talk about the paltriest incidents of life.
There came an evening when he opened the door and called to Amy.
'What is it?' she answered from the bedroom.
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