“Mine is a primitive and unstudied manner. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. “I shall not speak,” he said, “now or at any other time. There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. ” “Of course I am. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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