Like one who after a night of drunken revelry hies to his bed, still reeling, but with conscience yet pricking him, as the plungings of the Roman race-horse but so much the more strike his steel tags into him; […].
[…] heathenish Sottery
We saw some cockatoos in the aviary.
[M]y literary life was rather topsy-turveyed by a couple of untoward accidents last year, and a prostrating attack of influenza, and bronchitis subsequently, for the cure of which I am indebted to the climate of Portugal, …
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