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"I mean, for a book for' Pickerley. I s'pose there's not one man in a thousand not one liter'y man, anyhow has suffered anything like it. And I can't put it into the book!" "No," agreed Fancy meditatively. "I don't suppose you could: not in 'Pickerley' anyhow. You couldn' make your 'ero swallow anything under a di'mund tiyara, and that's not easy."
His name was Walter Scott, and he called it 'Waverley' without signing his name to it, because he was a Sheriff; and there was another man that wrote a book called 'Picnic' by Boss, and made pounds. So I've called mine 'Pickerley, by way of drawing attention, but, of course, if you think there's no chance, I suppose there isn't," wound up Palmerston, with a sudden access of despondency.
"Unless, o' course, you choose to use force, here in broad daylight. As a friend of mine said, only the other day," she went on, snatching at a purple patch from 'Pickerley, "the man as would lift his hand against a woman deserves whatever can be said of him. Public opinion will condemn him in this life, and, in the next, worms are his portion. So there!"
And that budding author who had already learnt to take his good things where he found them boldly transferred her warnings to the pages of 'Pickerley, which thereby arrived at resembling 'Pickwick' in one respect if in no other. From these generalities she would hark back, at shortest notice, to the practical present.
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