"You read it, Ruth. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn’t. ” “I came here to talk reasonably, Mr. Throughout the afternoon, while the doctor was giving her the first lesson out of his profound knowledge of life, her interest would break away continually, despite her honest efforts to pin it down to the facts so patiently elucidated for her. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion.
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