Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
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Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
“Sydelle at the hive the first time: now you pick a name. I pick my name. Instantly, a sort of birthing — a plumage and hunger. Was I infant or was I a stillborn?”
Lisa Marie Basile | Nympholepsy