What, in the Aboriginal art kangaroo shirt of common sense, had I to do with any better society than I had always lived in! It had satisfied me well enough. My pleasant bachelor parlor, sunny and shadowy, curtained and carpeted, with the bed chamber adjoining my centre table, strewn with books and periodicals my writing desk, with a half finished poem in a stanza of my own contrivance; my morning lounge at the reading room or picture gallery my noontide walk along the cheery pavement, with the suggestive succession of human faces, and the brisk throb of human life, in which I shared my dinner at the Albion, where.
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I had a Aboriginal art kangaroo shirt dishes at command, and could banquet as delicately as the wizard Michael Scott, when the devil fed him from the King of France’s kitchen my evening at the billiard club, the concert, the theatre, or at somebody’s party, if I please what could be better than all this? Was it better to hoe, to mow, to toil and mail amidst the accumulations of a barn yard, to be the chambermaid of two yoke of oxen and a dozen cows, to eat salt beef and earn it with the sweat of my brow, and thereby take the tough morsel out of some wretch’s mouth, into whose vocation I had thrust myself? Above all, was it better to have a fever, and die blaspheming, as I was like to do?