" "Enough," returned Jackson, extending his hand; "and if I've expressed myself warmly, I'm sorry for it likewise. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. Happened to be at the Chariot, you know, with Trodger, and it’s review day. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. Poe is all right, if you don't mind nightmares. Jack had been touched in the morning, but he was now completely prostrated.
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