Something between a sigh and a cry escaped him, and he sank upon a covered bench that ran along the wall.

His poor tragedies fell here and there upon the ground, and his head went down upon his hands, which rested on Mrs.Woffington's picture.

His anguish was so sharp, it choked his breath; when he recovered it, his eye bent down upon the picture.

"Ah, Jane," he groaned, "you know this villainous world better than I!" He placed the picture gently on the seat (that picture must now be turned into bread), and slowly stooped for his tragedies; they had fallen hither and thither; he had to crawl about for them; he was an emblem of all the humiliations letters endure.
As he went after them on all-fours, more than one tear pattered on the dusty floor.

Poor fellow! he was Triplet, and could not have died without tingeing the death-rattle with some absurdity; but, after all, he was a father driven to despair; a castle-builder, with his work rudely scattered; an artist, brutally crushed and insulted by a greater dunce than himself.
Faint, sick, and dark, he sat a moment on the seat before he could find strength to go home and destroy all the hopes he had raised.
While Triplet sat collapsed on the bench, fate sent into the room all in one moment, as if to insult his sorrow, a creature that seemed the goddess of gayety, impervious to a care.