But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. ‘Pen and paper, do you have them?’ ‘Danged if I have,’ came the truculent response. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. A riding-habit is all I have seen. .
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