an to be talking to himself in evident
distress!

The expected crisis came, even now that he was savagely determined to
go on at any cost, to write, let the result be what it would. His will
prevailed. A day or two of anguish such as there is no describing to the
inexperienced, and again he was dismissing slip after slip, a sigh of
thankfulness at the completion of each one. It was a fraction of the
whole, a fraction, a fraction.

The ordering of his day was thus. At nine, after breakfast, he sat down
to his desk, and worked till one. Then came dinner, followed by a walk.
As a rule he could not allow Amy to walk with him, for he had to think
over the remainder of the day's toil, and companionship would have been
fatal. At about half-past three he again seated himself; and wrote until
half-past six, when he had a meal. Then once more to work from half-past
seven to ten. Numberless were the experiments he had tried for the day's
division. The slightest interruption of the order for the time being put
him out of gear; Amy durst not open his door to ask however necessary a
question.

Sometimes the three hours' labour of a morning resulted in half-a-dozen
lines, corrected into illegibility. His brain would not work; he could
not recall the simplest synonyms; intolerable faults of composition
drove him mad. 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. 'I'm busy with Willie.'