His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. . I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. The joke of it is that he’s married to her now, and cuts me dead.
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