I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. Darrell attempted to reply. Then she threw the volume away with a little impatient exclamation. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums.
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