So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. At last he could bear it no longer. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Courtlaw.
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