It is not without melancholy that I wander among my recollections of the world of letters in London when first, bashful but eager, I was introduced to it.
I took dinner usually at the Yale Club—for some reason it was the gloomiest event of my day—and then I went upstairs to the library and studied investments and securities for a conscientious hour.
What entire lack of imagination! How callous! How common! How often have those words come back to me in the wretched solitary cell of the various prisons I have been sent to.
The warehouses which had bordered the train tracks for a quarter of a mile and held tons of military supplies had not been rebuilt and their rectangular foundations looked dreary under the dark sky.