I suppose because it IS the chief thing in life. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “I wonder if it is. He called it "The Man Who Could Not Go Home. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. " A shadow, which was not cast by the jib, fell upon them both. ” And Ann Veronica at once went back with the hold-all, trying not to hurry indecently but to keep up her dignified air of being a wronged person doing the right thing at a smart trot, to pack. ” Again that curious smile which puzzled him so much parted her lips for a moment.
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