It isn’t as though I haven’t done well. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. They want some fun, and there isn't any. “I have come for an explanation,” she said. “We’re in for it.
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