All the rest is humbug and delicacy. Now let us forget it. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. It doesn’t seem to matter.
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