But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.
I mean it's the writing, not the being read, that excites me.
Use words that soak up life.
And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
Often on a wet day I begin counting up; what I've read; what I haven't read.
Love and religion! thought Clarissa, going back into the drawing room, tingling all over. How detestable, how detestable they are!