London, Westminster, on the streets of Wimpole Street.
The carriage swayed along, and inside, Arthur was lighting a cigar, quietly flipping through the manuscript Mrs. Shelley had given him.
It was a translation of Homer's Epics, imitating the style of Pope, and also the maiden work of a girl named Elizabeth.
Mrs. Shelley's hands were crossed on her lap, and from her slightly wrinkled white gloves, it was evident that she seemed a bit nervous.
Although the manuscript was not her own work, she could not help but worry for Elizabeth.
Perhaps laymen might think the literary circle is always filled with amicable vibes, where everyone speaks politely.
But insiders like Mrs. Shelley deeply understood just how many pests there were in the trade, making it extremely difficult for one writer to appreciate another.
