The sum of their faults
was their inability to earn money; but, indeed, that inability
does not call for unmingled disdain.
It was very weak of Harold Biffen to come so near perishing of
hunger as he did in the days when he was completing his novel.
But he would have vastly preferred to eat and be satisfied had
any method of obtaining food presented itself to him. He did not
starve for the pleasure of the thing, I assure you. Pupils were
difficult to get just now, and writing that he had sent to
magazines had returned upon his hands. He pawned such of his
possessions as he could spare, and he reduced his meals to the
minimum. Nor was he uncheerful in his cold garret and with his
empty stomach, for 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' drew steadily to an end.
He worked very slowly. The book would make perhaps two volumes of
ordinary novel size, but he had laboured over it for many months,
patiently, affectionately, scrupulously. Each sentence was as
good as he could make it, harmonious to the ear, with words of
precious meaning skilfully set. Before sitting down to a chapter
he planned it minutely in his mind; then he wrote a rough draft
of it; then he elaborated the thing phrase by phrase.
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