Produced by Christopher Hapka, David Widger, Mary Glenn Krause, Jens Sadowski, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive. POINTED ROOFS POINTED ROOFS BY DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON LONDON: DUCKWORTH & CO. 3, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN TO WINIFRED RAY All rights reserved Second Impression, 1921 INTRODUCTION I have read "Pointed Roofs" three times. The first time it came to me with its original wardrobe, a different dress for every mood; and in some places the handwriting of the manuscript clothed the thought with the ragged urgency of haste; and in others it wore an aspect incredibly delicate and neat, as if the writer had caressed each word before setting it down. I decided then that "Pointed Roofs" was realism, was objective. The influence of the varying moods I inferred from the vagaries of the holograph, inclined me to believe that the book presented the picture of a conscious artist, outside her material, judging, balancing, selecting. The second time the novel came to me in typescript, in the formal, respectable dress of the applicant for a clerkship. It was there to answer questions; willing to be examined but replying always in a single manner. I changed my opinion after that interview. I thought that I had a clearer sight of the method and I swung round to a flat contradiction of my earlier judgment. This, I thought, is the most subjective thing I have ever read. The writer of this has gone through life with eyes that looked inward; she has known every person and experience solely by her own sensations and reactions. And, now, I have read "Pointed Roofs" a third time in the form of a printed book; suddenly ranged alongside all the other books, little and great, and challenging comparison with them. I am no longer prejudiced by the guise in which it comes; I have been able, within my limits, to judge it as I would judge any other novel.... That final judgment I hesitate to set down in any detail. I do not wish to annoy either critic or public by a superabundant eulogy. I have too great faith in the worth of Miss Richardson's work to fall into that extravagant praise which might well be understood as the easy escape of the bored friend taking the line of least resistance--mainly in clichés.