But as soon as I pressed him to write he would shake his head: "Oh, Frank, I cannot, you know my rooms; how could I write there?
A horrid bedroom like a closet, and a little sitting room without any outlook.

Books everywhere; and no place to write; to tell you the truth I cannot even read in it.

I can do nothing in such miserable poverty." Again and again he came back to this.

He harped upon his destitution, so that I could not but see purpose in it.

He was already cunning in the art of getting money without asking for it.