‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. Wood,—the person whom you may remember adopted him,—at Dollis Hill, near Willesden; and it's a singular but fortunate circumstance, so far as we are concerned, that Mrs. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face. That night in his den he smoked many pipes. But you want one quality, without which all others are valueless. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. "That's scarcely a fair question, Mr.
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