I communed with myself, after the manner of prodigals, and said: “How much better that I were down in Denver, even at Mrs. Coney’s, digging with a skewer into the corners seeking dirt which might be there, yea, even eating codfish, than that I should perish on this desert – of imagination.” So I turned the current of my imagination and fancied that I was at home before the fireplace, and that the backlog was about to roll down.
-Elinore Pruitt Stewart
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