You sent back my Christmas checks. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. Inside was the blue stone she had lost in the 1800’s. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. You have the gift of words, but you haven't started to create yet. I suppose that shocks one’s ideas. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis.
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