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reader a long way before he suspects that I am laying a tragedy-trap. In
the present form I could spin 16 books out of it with comfort and joy;
but I shall deny myself and restrict it to one. (If you should see
a little short story in a magazine in the autumn called "My Platonic
Sweetheart" written 3 weeks ago) that is not this one. It may have been
a suggester, though.
I expect all these singular privacies to interest you, and you are not
to let on that they don't.
We are leaving, this afternoon, for Ischl, to use that as a base for the
baggage, and then gad around ten days among the lakes and mountains to
rest-up Mrs. Clemens, who is jaded with housekeeping. I hope I can get a
chance to work a little in spots--I can't tell. But you do it--therefore
why should you think I can't?
[Remainder missing.]
The dream story was never completed. It was the same that he had
worked on in London, and perhaps again in Switzerland. It would be
tried at other times and in other forms, but it never seemed to
accommodate itself to a central idea, so that the good writing in it
eventually went to waste. The short story mentioned, "My Platonic
Sweetheart," a charming, idyllic tale, was not published during Mark
Twain's lifetime. Two years after his death it appeared in Harper's
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