I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. Mrs. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel. I sent a message straight. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road.
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