spread out insolently all Contempt for belles-let- through your review." A petty mind calls me pigheaded, which for him is evidently the highest insult. An author who barely crawled from name sometimes awakens men accuses me of not being one war to the other and whose languishing memories in old concerned with immortality; he knows, thank God, any number of people whose chief hope it is. In the eyes of an American hack-journalist the trouble with me is that I have not read Bergson or Freud;
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