I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. Don’t ask me how. “As a matter of fact, I deserve to. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. All my plans have succeeded.
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