Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. One might suppose him turning up; he knew a lot of clever people, and some of them might belong to the class. If they do, now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the watch, or huff a magistrate, they pay for their pastime, and that's sufficient. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said.
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