In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Who’s for a rubber of whist?” Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. “Not much,” he answered, “and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all.
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