Sindlesham tried. "He can't get out. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. “Well, I have said what I had to say, stumblingly and badly, and baldly. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night.
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