He expected me to write plays and get money for us both as in the past; but I couldn't; I simply could not.

When we were dunned his temper went to pieces.

He has never known what it is to want really.
You have no conception of the wretchedness of it all.

He has a terrible, imperious, irritable temper." "He's the son of his father," I interjected.
"Yes," said Oscar, "I am afraid that's the truth, Frank; he is the son of his father; violent, and irritable, with a tongue like a lash.

As soon as the means of life were straitened, he became sullen and began reproaching me; why didn't I write?
Why didn't I earn money?
What was the good of me?
As if I could write under such conditions.