I was expatriated by a man with an axe. The man and the axe were alike visionary and unreal, though it needed a very considerable effort of the will to hold them at mental arm’s length. I had work on hand which imperatively demanded to be finished, and I was so broken down by a long course of labour that it was a matter of actual difficulty with me when I sat down at my desk of a morning to lay hold of the thread of last night’s work, and to recall the personages who had moved through my manuscript pages for the past three or four months. The day’s work always began with a fog, which at first looked impenetrable, but would brighten little by little until I could see my ideal friends moving i…
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