All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. So I introduced him to my father-in-law like a shot. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. “Just hope that the ground doesn’t shift and unearth them.
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