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I have been reading three books Dean lent me this week. One was like a rose garden–very pleasant, but just a little too sweet. And one was like a pine wood on a mountain–full of balsam and tang–I loved it, and yet it filled me with a sort of despair. It was written so beautifully–I can never write like that, I feel sure. And one–it was just like a pig-sty. Dean gave me that one by mistake.
