Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots.
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