ABSTRACT
Crispin, the frown on his broad forehead relaxing, his eyes becoming alive again after their long absorption in the impersonality of thought, his breath flowing quickly into a deep sigh, shut The Common Weal and let it lie on the tableland made by his stomach, and bounded by his legs; which stretched upwards, at a sharp angle, towards the mantelpiece where his large feet were poised. 80 He remained for a moment realizing the comfort of being thus warmly cramped in front of the large fire that went streaming up the chimney: then put his feet down, and, standing a little precariously, because he was stiff, began to fumble in his pockets for a fountain pen. He sat down at his desk, whose piled tidiness of papers was interrupted only by a jar of the wallflowers which his landlady insisted on picking for him, and by a dagger in a sheath of very beautiful Persian enamel: and, pulling a block of paper towards him, he began to write:
