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She laughed gaily and she had a way when she laughed of throwing back her head and showing her beautiful white teeth, so that mirth from her was a thing very much to be desired. "Look round the table," she said. "Aren't we all just odds and ends of humanity the left-overs, you know. There is something inconglomerate about us. We are amiable to one another, but we don't mix. We can't."
He comes up gasping, and more than ever persuaded that Browning's poetry is a mass of inconglomerate nonsense, which nobody understands least of all members of the Browning Society. We need be at no pains to find a meaning for everything Mr. Browning has written.
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