And you truly mean, Condy, that you never will gamble again?
Yes, I know you mean it this time.

Oh, I'm so happy I could sing!" "Good Heavens, don't do that!" he cried quickly.

"You're a nice, amiable girl, Blix, even if you're not pretty, and you--" "Oh, bother you!" she retorted; "but you promise ?" "On my honor." "That's enough," she said quietly.
But even when "loafing" as he was this evening, Condy could not rid himself of the thought and recollection of his novel; resting or writing, it haunted him.

Otherwise he would not have been the story-writer that he was.

From now on until he should set down the last sentence, the "thing" was never to let him alone, never to allow him a moment's peace.