“An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. I’ll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. You desert your home; I throw up useful teaching, risk every hope in your career. ’ ‘Was.
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