To encourage me, I suppose, Callan gave me the proof-sheets of his next to read in bed.

The thing was so bad that it nearly sickened me of him and his jobs.

I tried to read the stuff; to read it conscientiously, to read myself to sleep with it.

I was under obligations to old Cal and I wanted to do him justice, but the thing was impossible.

I fathomed a sort of a plot.