I have a _name_ to protect." His deep voice was shaken with feeling.

His worn and rugged features twitched and worked with emotion.
Aaron King listened in amazement to the words that were spoken by the famous novelist with such pathetic regret and stinging self-accusation.
Not knowing how to reply, he said casually, "You are working here, Mr.
Lagrange ?" "Working! Me?
I don't _work_ anywhere.

I am a literary scavenger.

I haunt the intellectual slaughter pens, and live by the putrid offal that self-respecting writers reject.

I glean the stinking materials for my stories from the sewers and cesspools of life.