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(
cheating him outrageously, of course--but conscience got the upper hand
again and I told him before I left the premises that I'd pay for the
saddle if he didn't like the machine--on condition that he donate said
machine to a charity)
This was a little over five weeks ago--so I had long ago concluded
that Bliss didn't want the machine and did want the saddle--wherefore I
jumped at the chance of shoving the machine off onto you, saddle or no
saddle so I got the blamed thing out of my sight.
The saddle hangs on Tara's walls down below in the stable, and the
machine is at Bliss's grimly pursuing its appointed mission, slowly and
implacably rotting away another man's chances for salvation.
I have sent Bliss word not to donate it to a charity (though it is a
pity to fool away a chance to do a charity an ill turn,) but to let me
know when he has got his dose, because I've got another candidate for
damnation. You just wait a couple of weeks and if you don't see the
Type-Writer come tilting along toward Cambridge with an unsatisfied
appetite in its eye, I lose my guess.
Don't you be mad about this blunder, Howells--it only comes of a bad
memory, and the stupidity which is inseparable from true genius. Nothing
intentionally criminal in it.
Yrs ever
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