He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. Cased and ribbed with stone, and braced with horizontal beams of timber, the piles, which formed the foundation of these jetties, had resisted the strong encroachments of the current for centuries. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. I was afraid that I might be called upon as a witness. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion.
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