'Have you note-paper? I'll write to them; impossible to call in
my present guise.'
Indeed his attire was more like that of a bankrupt costermonger
than of a man of letters. Collar he had none, for the griminess
of that he wore last night had necessitated its being thrown
aside; round his throat was a dirty handkerchief. His coat had
been brushed, but its recent experiences had brought it one stage
nearer to that dissolution which must very soon be its fate. His
grey trousers were now black, and his boots looked as if they had
not been cleaned for weeks.
'Shall I say anything about the character of the book?' he asked,
seating himself with pen and paper. 'Shall I hint that it deals
with the ignobly decent?'
'Better let them form their own judgment,' replied Reardon, in
his hoarse voice.
'Then I'll just say that I submit to them a novel of modern life,
the scope of which is in some degree indicated by its title. Pity
they can't know how nearly it became a holocaust, and that I
risked my life to save it. If they're good enough to accept it
I'll tell them the story.
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