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[Nawfel <mo...@al...>]

Constant perseverance in _dining_, was not to be conceived. Then her
papers--scraps of paper on which she had tried rhymes, such as love,
dove; heart, part; fame, name; with a view to embodiment in her
poems--letters from young friends, telling all about the parties of
their respective mammas, and how interesting the last baby was: to think
of these being subjected to the rigid scrutiny of a council of either
Ten or Three, was too whimsical. To the count, on the other hand,
everything was grave and official. He said he could well