She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. You mustn’t do things like that. "He is," replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. He threw her on the bed. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. Something in her tone made him look up.
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