All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. I thank God for the very skin that is peeling from your nose, for all things great and small that make us what we are. At present I cannot marry, I will not become bound even to any one. "Wretch!" cried Jack. She had been careless. "Do you call this frantic glee happiness?" "It's all the happiness I have known for years," returned the widow, becoming suddenly calm, "and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive.
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