that I didn't have the slightest idea of what I was talking about. (Master Jervie doesn't let politeness interfere with truth.) But the last one I did—just a little sketch laid in college—he said wasn't bad; and he had it typewritten, and I sent it to a magazine. They've had it two weeks; maybe they're thinking it over.
You should see the sky! There's the queerest orange-colored light over everything. We're going to have a storm.
•••••••
It commenced just that moment with drops as big as quarters and all the shutters banging. I had to run to close windows, while Carrie flew to the attic with an armful of milk pans to put under the places where the roof leaks—and then, just as I was resuming my pen, I remembered that I'd left a cushion and rug and hat and Matthew Arnold's poems under a tree in the orchard, so I dashed out to get them, all quite soaked. The red cover of
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