Vergil in Averno; Avram Davidson; 1987

This edition of adventures in bad editing:

Armin, all eyes at the work of sorting the jewel-stone, and at the show of the sparkles themselves, seemed to have heard nor seen nothing of this brief scene.

Page 39 of the 1987 Doubleday hardcover.  This is a shame, because there's a nice bit higher up the page.  Vergil has spent this evening talking to a man, who tells him of the blind jeweler of Averno, and soon the two are beating on the jeweler's door at a late hour.

At the exact moment his outburst ceased, one half of the upper half of the door (they were not notably trusting in Averno) was opened; there stood a man with a lamp in his hand and in the other he held a polished plate to magnify and reflect the light.  "Come now, Messer Armin," said this one, "is all this clamor and commotion needed?  Will not morning--"

Armin (at last! the man's name!  Vergil had had a sort of shyness in asking to begin with, and then the longer the time had passed without his being told it . . . ah well: "Armin."  So.) [...]

From the perspective of someone who is bad with names, this beautifully captures the embarrassment of not knowing, and eventual release of discomfort when a name is finally revealed.

But... "[He] seemed to have heard nor seen nothing".  I had been struggling to engage with the story up to this point, and so this provided the excuse not to continue.