I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “No reason. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. Then he looked towards his granddaughter once more, who had flounced away to the window at her greataunt’s interruption. ‘It is seldom enough I am visited by anyone at all, let alone a personable young redcoat. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone.
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