” Carolyn shushed him modestly. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town. ‘The old man who lives here, idiot. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. ” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously.
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