To-day an idea occurred to me, one that should have occurred before. Once upon a time I was introduced to the editor of the ——. Perhaps he will not remember it, I said. But anyhow, why not try? I will take him The Captive—perhaps he can use it in the magazine—who knows?
I knew nothing better to do, so I went there. He was very polite—he did remember my face. He was fearfully busy, it seemed. He did not think there was much likelihood of a magazine's publishing a blank-verse tragedy; but I told him how I had worked, and he said he'd read it.
And so there's one chance more!
My poor, foolish heart is always ready to tremble with new hope. But faith in that book was so ground into it!
—I asked him to read it at once, I explained that I was in great haste. I think he understood what I meant. My clothes show it.
I have been hoarding my money—counting every cent. I dread the world so! Now that I am so broken, so laden with misery, it sounds about me as one jeer of mockery. But I shall have to be hunting a place soon—you never can tell how long it may take you, and the chances are so terrible.
I will not do anything until I hear from this one man, however. He promised to let me know in a week.
I did not see him at the publisher's—he has another office besides. He had huge piles of papers and books about him; he is an important man, I guess; can it be that he will be the one to save me?
I think: “Oh if he knew, he would!” I find myself thinking that of all the world—if I could only make them understand! Poor, impotent wretch, if I could only find the word!