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Updated: May 1, 2025
"If Black Sea, Red Sea, White Sea, ran One tide of ink to Ispahan, If all the geese in Lincoln fens Produced spontaneous well-made pens, If Holland old and Holland new One wondrous sheet of paper grew, And could I sing but half the grace Of half a freckle in thy face, Each syllable I wrote would reach From Inverness to Bognor's beach, Each hair-stroke be a river Rhine, Each verse an equinoctial line!"
"He is not fit to live," Peter Ruff repeated. "He contaminates the world with every breath he draws!" Sir Richard assented. "Perhaps," Peter Ruff said, "you had better give me his address, and the name he goes under." "He lives at a boarding-house in Russell Street, Bloomsbury," Sir Richard said. "It is Mrs. Bognor's boarding-house.
Among these was Major Edward Jones. Major Jones sat at Mrs. Bognor's right hand, and was evidently the show guest of the boarding-house. Peter Ruff, without the least desire to attack his position, sat upon her left and monopolized the conversation. On the third night it turned, by chance, upon precious stones. Peter Ruff drew a little chamois leather bag from his pocket.
"If Black Sea, Red Sea, White Sea, ran One tide of ink to Ispahan, If all the geese in Lincoln fens Produced spontaneous well-made pens, If Holland old and Holland new One wondrous sheet of paper grew, And could I sing but half the grace Of half a freckle in thy face, Each syllable I wrote would reach From Inverness to Bognor's beach, Each hair-stroke be a river Rhine, Each verse an equinoctial line!"
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