Sometimes he sat by the bedside for half an hour without speaking, then rose and hastened away to hide himself and be alone with his misery.
He was earnest and eager to-night in his praise of Waymark's book, which he had just read in manuscript.
"It is horrible," he exclaimed; "often hideous and revolting to me; but I feel its absolute truth.

Such a book will do more good than half a dozen religious societies." "If only people can be got to read it.

Yet I care nothing for that aspect of the thing.

Is it artistically strong?
Is it good as a picture?
There was a time when I might have written in this way with a declared social object.

That is all gone by.