His plots are of the "strong" order--the events succeed each other and are fairly connected, but do not compose a history so much as a chronicle.

In character, despite his intense verisimilitude, he is not very individual.

Robinson himself, Moll, Jack, William the Quaker in _Singleton_, even Roxana the cold-blooded and covetous courtesan, cannot be said not to be real--they and almost every one of the minorities are an immense advance on the colourless and bloodless ticketed puppets of the Middle Fiction.

But they still want _something_--the snap of the fingers of the artist.

Moll is perhaps the most real of all of them and yet one has no flash-sights of her being--never sees her standing out against soft blue sky or thunder-cloud as one sees the great characters of fiction; never hears her steps winding and recognises her gesture as one does theirs.
So again his description is sufficient: and the enumerative particularity of it is even great part of the _secret de Polichinelle_ to which we are coming.