Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. “Mean as an old mule, too. ” “Sounds interesting,” Ennison remarked. Some of their specimens—wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter.
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