game. Life is a strange music-clangor of gold bells, some silent, some far-echoing. And the common-tasting thing cracks a bell-edge.
Then briskly I answer the last letter from Atlanta-Georgia and soon there comes a fresh sheaf of smooth velvetish lies to pad my way.
There may come no more if this I write now should find its way to Atlanta-Georgia. Or if fate or Bertha should intervene.
But always I know Weakness of me will find ways to work at its losing trade.
It is of the dubious inevitable side of human nature—like gold teeth and tinned salmon and bastard lacy valentines
