184
VIVIAN GREY.
a pint of Maraschino. Gone through it all; and yet here I am, breathing as freely as a young eagle. Oh! for an indigestion, if merely for the sake of variety! Good heavens! I'm afraid I'm getting healthy!
Now for Vivian Grey again! I don't know how it is, but I cannot write to-day; the room's so hot. Open that door: now I shall get on better. Oh, what a wretched pen! I can't get out a sentence. The room's too cold;—shut that horrid door. Write I must, and will,—what's the matter? It's this great bowstring of a cravat. Off with it! who could ever write in a cravat?
