He would write a sentence beginning thus: 'She took a book with a look of--;' or thus: 'A revision of this decision would have made him an object of derision.' Or, if the period were otherwise inoffensive, it ran in a rhythmic gallop which was torment to the ear.
All this, in spite of the fact that his former books had been noticeably good in style.

He had an appreciation of shapely prose which made him scorn himself for the kind of stuff he was now turning out.

'I can't help it; it must go; the time is passing.' Things were better, as a rule, in the evening.

Occasionally he wrote a page with fluency which recalled his fortunate years; and then his heart gladdened, his hand trembled with joy.
Description of locality, deliberate analysis of character or motive, demanded far too great an effort for his present condition.

He kept as much as possible to dialogue; the space is filled so much more quickly, and at a pinch one can make people talk about the paltriest incidents of life.
There came an evening when he opened the door and called to Amy.
'What is it ?' she answered from the bedroom.