I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. I was to blame to carry the matter so far. Rather a magniloquent term, perhaps, but what else am I to say? One of these is that the most absolutely selfish thing in the world is to give way to depression, to think of one’s troubles at all except of how to overcome them. "That's for myself," rejoined Mrs. Kneebone and his Friends.
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