You must forgive the poet’s license I take. He smiled. The policemen were closing in from the sides to intervene. “Please don’t,” she said. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. The image did not move. Oh, cuss it!” “Eh?” “He said I would. And then they disgorged.
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