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 have been able to make a drawing only of one venerable college provost, who poured out for me a glass of sherry at least as old as the elder Pitt.

Sometimes, too, I dream about the Cambridge rabbit. They made him breathe some gas or other, to see what his rabbity spleen would say to it. I saw him die; he gasped and rolled his eyes. Now he haunts my dreams. God be merciful to his long-eared soul.