He had no
thought of whether such toil would be recompensed in coin of the
realm; nay, it was his conviction that, if with difficulty
published, it could scarcely bring him money. The work must be
significant, that was all he cared for. And he had no society of
admiring friends to encourage him. Reardon understood the merit
of the workmanship, but frankly owned that the book was repulsive
to him. To the public it would be worse than repulsive--tedious,
utterly uninteresting. No matter; it drew to its end.
The day of its completion was made memorable by an event
decidedly more exciting, even to the author.
At eight o'clock in the evening there remained half a page to be
written. Biffen had already worked about nine hours, and on
breaking off to appease his hunger he doubted whether to finish
to-night or to postpone the last lines till tomorrow. The
discovery that only a small crust of bread lay in the cupboard
decided him to write no more; he would have to go out to purchase
a loaf and that was disturbance.
But stay; had he enough money? He searched his pockets.
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