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Mr. Clemens did have such a good time with you and Mr. Howells. He
evidently has no regret that he did not get to the Centennial. I was
driven nearly distracted by his long account of Mr. Howells and his
wanderings. I would keep asking if they ever got there, he would never
answer but made me listen to a very minute account of everything that
they did. At last I found them back where they started from.
If you find misspelled words in this note, you will remember my
infirmity and not hold me responsible.
Affectionately yours,
LIVY L. CLEMENS.
In spite of his success with the Sellers play and his itch
to follow it up, Mark Twain realized what he believed to be
his literary limitations. All his life he was inclined to
consider himself wanting in the finer gifts of character-
shading and delicate portrayal. Remembering Huck Finn, and
the rare presentation of Joan of Arc, we may not altogether
agree with him. Certainly, he was never qualified to
delineate those fine artificialities of life which we are
likely to associate with culture, and perhaps it was
something of this sort that caused the hesitation confessed
in the letter that follows. Whether the plan suggested
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