The air in the office on the third floor of Empire Publishing was a bit stuffy.
The dampness of August mixed with the smell of ink, making one feel sticky all over, unable to resist the urge to sneeze.
Tennyson sat on the bench by the window, holding a few manuscripts scheduled for publication next week. He repeatedly read those lines of poetry, but no matter what, he couldn't get into them.
This melancholy poet couldn't help but sigh, "I really shouldn't have stayed. If I'd known Arthur was bringing important guests for a tour today, I would have taken the day off."
"What are you afraid of?" Dickens poked his head out from behind the desk, a pipe clamped between his teeth, "The Prince of Saxony-Coburg isn't going to eat you. It's just a matter of chatting, explaining what the publishing industry is all about."
