[Logcheck-devel] monogram

[Moll Hilliard]

Up against this, under the window, there was a kitchen table withan inkstained green cloth.
He began to feel a little less bored andangry.
With smoke tickling his lungs, heabstracted himself from the mean and actual world. From his earliest childhood Gordons relatives had depressed himhorribly. Vaguely he looked forward to some kind of moneyless, anchoriteexistence.
They had accepted the money-code,and by that code they were failures.
He was asthough dedicated to this war against money. He tiptoed down, clutching the damp bundle of tea-leaves againsthis breast. At the angle ofthe stairs he halted, listened a moment longer. Youcould always hear it striking at night.
It was said of him that he was worth his wagesbut wasnt the type that Makes Good. It was said of him that he was worth his wagesbut wasnt the type that Makes Good.
He repeated it to himself, over and over.
They were a reminder thatthere was still somebody in the world who cared for him. It had seemed all right, a year ago; now,on the other hand, it seemed subtly vulgar. In a crude, boyish way, he had begun to get the hang of this money-business. The first effect of poverty is that it kills thought. He went on,up the dark evil-smelling stairs.
Moreover, it had early been decided inthe family that Gordon was clever.
He could not even bear to lookat them any longer.
And it is above all derelict spinsters of the middle-classes who keep them going. The fidgeting, tiring job ofgiving piano lessons was, of course, the worst possible thing forher.
His uncles and aunts werealready talking dismally about getting Gordon settled in life. It needed an effort even to disturb that frightful jungleof papers. It was four whole days since shehad written.
And even now there was endless naggingbecause Gordon would never allow his table to be tidied up. It was always some minutes before MrsWisbeach brought the letters upstairs.
London Pleasures, by GordonComstock, author of Mice. No, it isnt like that that one wasmeant to live. Gordon had stretched his legs outstraight.
The Gordon part of it was Scotch,of course. It was some time before he could find the energy to undress. They PREFERRED being poor, it seemed to him. They had never had the senseto lash out and just LIVE, money or no money, as the lower classesdo. How light-heartedly he had begun it,two years ago! Moreover, it had early been decided inthe family that Gordon was clever.
But her nature wassimple and affectionate. Perhaps he WOULD work; for a little while, anyway. 
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