"My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably. I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. "I can readily see," he said, "why you'll always be as poor as a church mouse. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. "I give you all of my genius, and you say—'Get out!' I am some kind of a dog.
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