You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. No matter what happened, whether the road smoothed out or became still rougher, he would always be carrying this secret with him; and each time he recalled it, the rack. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace.
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