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June 9, '80.
Well, old practical joker, the corpse of Mr. X----has been here, and
I have bedded it and fed it, and put down my work during 24 hours
and tried my level best to make it do something, or say something, or
appreciate something--but no, it was worse than Lazarus. A kind-hearted,
well-meaning corpse was the Boston young man, but lawsy bless me,
horribly dull company. Now, old man, unless you have great confidence in
Mr. X's judgment, you ought to make him submit his article to you before
he prints it. For only think how true I was to you: Every hour that he
was here I was saying, gloatingly, "O G-- d--- you, when you are in bed
and your light out, I will fix you" (meaning to kill him)...., but then
the thought would follow--"No, Howells sent him--he shall be spared, he
shall be respected he shall travel hell-wards by his own route."
Breakfast is frozen by this time, and Mrs. Clemens correspondingly hot.
Good bye.
Yrs ever,
MARK.
"I did not expect you to ask that man to live with you," Howells
answered. "What I was afraid of was that you would turn him out of
doors, on sight, and so I tried to put in a good word for him.
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