I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest.
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