All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Rank ingratitude, I call it. “Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly. The minute he discovers Roding here, he’ll know something is up. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. Wood,—Winifred fainted in the arms of a female attendant,—and Wood standing beside them almost in a state of distraction. ’ Martha got up with a swish of her black habit. The Oriental waterfronts were rank with the stuff. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest.
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