but too hungry not to eat—until finally the last fragment goes down the gullets of the sharp-toothed sharks of the ocean.
Good heavens, lady, I've written you the longest letter in the world! And I that would spare you!
Do you know what I am saying to myself? Of course you don't. How should you?
Always faithfully,
Tomas Beauling.
Dear Phylis: Here I had a letter from you, and at the same time one from your father. If they came out by the same mail, they must have been delightful company for each other, as they most surely are for me. Are you and your father plotting against me, or did you happen on the same idea without mutual cognizance? Your father says that he wants me to work for him, and he says that he can make me useful—I hope he is not given to boasting. You tell me that I have done the picturesque to death, and that it is time I settled down. So be it,
