And each weapon was also a book to him; he sensed their stories as he handled them; he felt the personalities of their former owners stirring in him when he picked them up.

It was in that room that he dreamed; which is to say, it was in that room that he lived his real life.
Cleggett walked over to his writing desk and pulled out a bulky manuscript.

It was his own work.

Is it necessary to hint that it was a tale essentially romantic in character?
He flung it into the grate and set fire to it.

It represented the labor of two years, but as he watched it burn, stirring the sheets now and then so the flames would catch them more readily, he smiled, unvisited by even the most shadowy second thought of regret.
For why the deuce should a man with $500,000 in his pocket write romances?
Why should anyone write anything who is free to live?
For the first time in his existence Cleggett was free.
He picked up a sword.