"And I'm flattered, but it's a matter of cruel necessity." He rubbed his red head against a wall, scritch-scratch, and tapped an agitated fingertip on the bricks beside his thigh. "I have no paints. No tools. My inspiration overflows and runs to ruin. Alas, one must make do. And now here you are," he added with a cunning grin. "My muse, delicate as a rose and clever as thorns. And all I have are words. What a shocking waste."
The Diabolical Miss Hyde by Viola Carr.