The Secret Code of Monsters

Chapter 776 Ch.775 Novel Game

I'm afraid Roland is the first 'outsider' to know the true identity of 'Mr.' Lan Bronte.

When visiting Taylor's home, in addition to the bouquet of flowers, Roland also specially selected a gold fountain pen inlaid with purple gemstones from an old store in the West District.

"Your aesthetics are at odds with your face."

Randolph had a 'little' opinion about Roland's gift: How could a gift to a writer be vulgar gold?

"Don't blame me, Randolph. I asked Chandel to pick it out for me. I don't have much experience in gift giving."

He repeated what Shandel had said, and Randolph became even more unhappy.

"Of course I'll give gold, Roland. If it's a writer, then give him a gold pen. Those poor fellows who always think they can hear more noise than others and hide in cold and damp rooms to pick their pimples will thank you for this decision sooner or later."

'He has a lot of romance, but no wealth.'

Roland understood why Shandel was hostile to writers.

—Or she has it for all those who are good at living with a pen.

The little newspapers in the corners of London often publish stories about drinking, which are made-up stories.

For example, the priests were happily and diligently working on their daily farms, or some embarrassing and funny things happened to a noble’s wife and son…

Another example is how saints and nuns in the church shout out in the most pious and holy manner...

Such research.

"I don't like these people, Roland. If you are willing to buy a few books, you will soon find that these useless people who waste ink and paper all day long, and sympathize with the world, but are actually useless, always have all kinds of grand ideals, the best and sharpest minds, and the most philosophical ink."

'They called on people not to degenerate, but to maintain and preserve their conscience.'

"To save the prostitutes, to save the children, to save the poor, to save the disabled soldiers, to save the innocent people under the butcher's knife——"

'They are the Holy Spirit on earth...'

'But he didn't even want to wash his pants that were stained with shit.'

Roland laughed for a long time and said, "I don't know how to wash it either."

Shandel said it was okay, she would help him wash it - then she suddenly remembered that they also had a girl named Lillian Rose Vansittart.

'If you want to have some fun, we can take turns washing them.'

'Let's not talk about excrement anymore, okay?'

Roland felt that Shandel's view was biased.

Of course, you can't ask a person who has been "harmed" to be fair to the perpetrator.

It's just that he had met and knew Charles Darwin.

After getting to know this old scholar, whose knowledge is higher and heavier than a mountain, I found that some people can be humorous and likable.

It doesn't depend on their work, or so-called ideals and pursuits.

Like Miss Bronte.

She is now considered a writer.

Roland had never found anything distasteful about her—or perhaps Randolph had.

Then he had to endure it.

He had caused his own troubles, so he had to solve them himself.

"You should buy ten or so copies and tell her when you visit her that you like her novels and that you are definitely one of the first loyal readers..."

Randolph whispered instructions to Roland, teaching him what he had done.

"I'm not her lover, Randolph. I don't think the novel is that interesting - to be honest, I don't need to read it. You two have to act it out for me every time I visit... Good day, Miss Brontë... or... Mr. Brontë?"

Bronte is radiant today.

"Hi, Mr. Collins."

Bronte greeted.

She was not wearing a maid uniform today. She was wearing a dark peach-colored long skirt with white stamens sewn on it, and her hair was tied up.

The deep and depressing rust stains of the past have faded away, revealing the true shining background.

"She went to a salon."

Randolph sat down while talking, threw him a cigar, and turned to ask Bronte: "How is it?"

The new writer had obviously not yet returned to reality from the glamorous and happy party. She gently pulled down her skirt, causing the dark blue at her ankles to appear and disappear.

Randolph joked: "'Elegant'? That's the writer's answer? It's like judging a plaster line by its quality."

"You'd better not offend her, Randolph," Roland said, laughing and smoking a cigar. "You've learned your lesson, haven't you? You're blind and you're missing an arm."

Randolph feigned anger: "I finally cured it! Our child's eyes are big, bright and black - like me."

"'I gave him all my trust, and he gave me all his trust.'" Roland chanted.

Randolph continued word by word: "'Bone of his bones and flesh of his flesh.'"

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Bronte's eyes flickered and her face flushed.

"You two are not gentlemen at all."

She glared at Randolph and Roland in turn (a very fair way of handling the matter), picked up her skirt, and ran up the stairs with a thump.

Leaving behind were two gentlemen laughing and rubbing their backs on the sofa.

Roland was happy for Randolph's happiness.

Randolph was happy for Bronte and his lover's happiness.

He hoped that she could get happiness from her hobbies, although he didn't understand what was worthy of praise and admiration for these black and blue inks that moved and rearranged the characters, and he didn't understand what they meant by claiming "this is my mission since I was born"...

He was happy when he saw Bronte smile and was happy.

He liked to listen to her talk about literary history, which writer was good at using which technique, which part was more "barbaric" and talented, who was an academic, and who wrote something completely contrary to his own under what circumstances -

"To love someone is to make her happy. I understand this now, Roland."

When the laughter died down, Randolph sighed.

"I don't know how to love. I have been like this since I was a kid. But Bronte is someone who knows how to love and is born to love. We are the best combination...right?"

Roland nodded slightly.

"You prefer 'Miss Brontë the Writer' to 'Maid Brontë,' don't you?"

It looked like Theresa was finally going to have a good tantrum.

Randolph spread his hands: "...I just don't want her to work too hard. Oh, I gave her a slight raise in salary."

“Double?”

Generally speaking, the weekly salary of a governess was not even as high as that of some heavy manual workers - Miss Bronte's weekly salary would not exceed ten shillings.

Randolph shook his head: "Five pounds."

Roland: ...

It's higher than his weekly salary.

"These two seem to be playing a very novel game..."

"Randolph." Roland pursed his lips.

"Um?"

"Actually, I also want to be a writer... and I also want a friend who doesn't want me to work too hard."