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. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Twice he cleaned the old briar; still there was no improvement. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. Vorsack. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire.
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