My head is so ill that I cannot write a paper full as I used to do; and yet I will not forgive a blank of half an inch from you.
When he does talk, it's always about the farm: the milo is doing poorly this year, the corn has a blight[…]
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked / Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; / His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, […]
Someone had got hold of a bullhorn and was bellowing out instructions that, thanks to screels of feedback, were utterly incomprehensible.
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DiQt（ディクト）
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★★★★★★★★★★
