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Willibald did not answer, but seemed to be studying the pattern of the carpet intently; suddenly he asked abruptly: "Hartmut how do you go to work to write poetry anyhow?" Hartmut repressed a smile with difficulty. "That is not easy to explain. I really fear I cannot answer you intelligibly." "Yes, writing poetry is a curious thing," sighed Willibald with a sad shake of the head.
He threw another stick of driftwood on the fire and after a moment's thought fetched the black diary from his rubber dunnage bag. When the fire was clear and bright, he began to write. "Diana, you were wrong. No matter how strenuous the work is, you are never out of the background of my thoughts. But at least I am having surcease from grieving for you.
You would not wish to do anything inconsiderate." "Oh, certainly not. May I write to him, then?" she asked. "It will be some time before he can attend to any letters. You have no idea how weak he is. We want him to remain in perfect rest and quiet." "This is Thursday," she said. "Supposing everything goes well, and I called on Tuesday next, could I see him then?"
They seem to say that nobody on the other side will take trouble enough to make a regular opposition, but that there are men in the City who will write letters to the newspapers, and get up a sort of Bank clamour. Plantagenet says nothing about it, but there is a do-or-die manner with him which is quite tragical.
Sylvanus Urban that her neck was the lily, and her shape the nymph's: we should write an acrostic about her, and celebrate our Lambertella in an elegant poem, still to be read between a neat new engraved plan of the city of Prague and the King of Prussia's camp, and a map of Maryland and the Delaware counties. Here is Miss Theo blushing like a rose.
It is the ordinary Practice and Business of Life with a Set of idle Fellows about this Town, to write Letters, send Messages, and form Appointments with little raw unthinking Girls, and leave them after Possession of them, without any Mercy, to Shame, Infamy, Poverty, and Disease.
He decided not to write to Marcia of the change in his affairs, but to take the chance of finding something better before she returned. There was very little time for him to turn round, and he was still without a place or any prospect when she came home.
Mary was quite aware that the thing must be settled. In the first place she must answer Captain Marrable's letter. And then it was her bounden duty to let Mr. Gilmore know her mind as soon as she knew it herself. It might be easy enough for her to write to Walter Marrable. That which she had to say to him would be pleasant enough in the saying.
She told him of her safe arrival and comfortable quarters, and then added: What I really write about, dear Jude, is something I said to you at parting. You had been so very good and kind to me that when you were out of sight I felt what a cruel and ungrateful woman I was to say it, and it has reproached me ever since.
But with all the great tide of prejudiced feelings towards the Tuscaroras, I have ventured to write their history as I have received it, and think it to be true.
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