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REMAILED
up her trembling arms and pleads with swimming, upturned eyes, which are eloquent with the love she felt too late.
It is supposed to be something to have your work published in an English magazine, to have it published in book form, to be flattered by critics and reprinted throughout the country press, or even to be cut up well and severely. But, after all, now we come to think of it, we would almost as soon see a piece of ours marked with big inky crosses in the soiled and crumbled rag that Bill or Jim gets sent him by an old mate of his―the paper that goes thousands of miles scrawled all over with smudgy addresses and tied with a piece of string.
