I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. We were only—les autres. But I see very clearly that as things are a daughter is necessarily dependent on her father and bound while she is in that position to live harmoniously with his ideals. "This gentleman brings us tidings of an old friend, my dear," said the carpenter. My feelings overpower me. "You poor child!" said Prudence.
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