John picked it up and put it in her hands. “Think how dumb we find ourselves and stifled! I know we seem to have a sort of freedom. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. As it was, my oldest and trustiest setter, Abraham Mendez, received a blow on the head from one of the lads that will deprive me of his services for a week to come,—if, indeed it does not disable him altogether. “My word holds,” she said.
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