It had been a day when the _Post_ did
not require him; hour by hour since breakfast he had fared gloriously
upon his book. But to-night his little room was cold; unendurably cold;
not even the flamings of genius could overcome its frigor; and hardly
half an hour had passed before he became aware that his sanctum was
altogether uninhabitable. Bitterly he faced the knowledge that he must
fare forth into the outer world of the dining-room that night; irritably
he gathered up his books and papers.
Half-way down the first flight a thought struck Queed, and he retraced
his steps. The last time that he had been compelled to the dining-room
the landlady's daughter had been there--(it was all an accident, poor
child! Hadn't she vowed to herself never to intrude on the little Doctor
again?)--and, stupidly breaking the point of her pencil, had had the
hardihood to ask him for the loan of his knife. Mr. Queed was determined
that this sort of thing should not occur again. A method for enforcing
his determination, at once firm and courteous, had occurred to him. One
could never tell when trespassers would stray into the dining-room--his
dining-room by right of his exalted claim.
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