If I don't make Mr.
Archibald Dorrimore fork out fifty guineas my name isn't Jeremy Rofflash." Shortly after Lavinia set out on her way to Grub Street.

Lancelot Vane was pacing Moor Fields--a depressing tract of land, the grass trodden down here and there into bare patches, thanks to the games of the London 'prentices and gambols of children--in company with Edmund Curll, the most scurrilous and audacious of writers and booksellers who looked upon standing on the pillory, which he had had to do more than once, more as a splendid form of advertisement than as a degradation.
"You can write what I want if you chose--no man better," he was saying.
Vane was listening not altogether attentively.

His thoughts were elsewhere.
"And supposing I don't choose." "Then you'll be an arrant fool," sneered Curll angrily.

"You're out at elbows.

You haven't a penny to bless yourself with.