We've received an interesting letter from a Mrs. Miggins of London.
We will add what we said predictingly on this very subject in our Number for June 1837, as it expresses our opinion still; only unhappily confirmed by recent experience.
One of his neighbours opposite, a nice old guy with a stoop and a horrible little Yorkshire terrier, called him Bill - always had done and presumably always would, right up till the day he died. It actually irritated Will, who was not, he felt, by any stretch of the imagination, a Bill. Bill wouldn't smoke spliffs and listen to Nirvana. So why had he allowed this misapprehension to continue? Why hadn't he just said, four years ago, Actually my name is Will?
Actually my name is Will
an iced cake
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