You must dispose of the goldsmith's note I gave you yesterday, as soon as you arrive at Rotterdam. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. " "Where did he get it?" inquired Wood, in surprise. Not all of us, but some of us. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. “We played at love-making in Paris. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please.
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