If with these characters I have deserved the name of "realist," I have also clothed my skeletons with the robe of romance.
"The Morgesons" completed, and no objections made to its publication, it was published.

As an author friend happened to be with us, almost on the day it was out, I gave it to him to read, and he returned it to me with the remark that there were "a good many _whiches_ in it." That there were, I must own, and that it was difficult to extirpate them.

I was annoyed at their fertility.

The inhabitants of my ancient dwelling place pounced upon "The Morgesons," because they were convinced it would prove to be a version of my relations, and my own life.

I think one copy passed from hand to hand, but the interest in it soon blew over, and I have not been noticed there since.
"Two Men" I began as I did the others, with a single motive; the shadow of a man passed before me, and I built a visionary fabric round him.