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All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. You cannot refuse me this. ‘Shall we abandon the guard, then, sir?’ ‘Certainly not. But pathologically, he is still on the edge. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup.
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