It won't be all roses for me--they know that.

But they know that I can take care of myself if it isn't." He remembered something one of his friends in the office had said of the painful surprise the Bird of Prey would feel if he ever tried his beak on him in the belief that he was soft.
She abruptly left the mere personal question.

"And which would you rather write: poems or those kind of sketches ?" "I don't know," said Burnamy, willing to talk of himself on any terms.
"I suppose that prose is the thing for our time, rather more; but there are things you can't say in prose.

I used to write a great deal of verse in college; but I didn't have much luck with editors till Mr.March took this little piece for 'Every Other Week'." "Little?
I thought it was a long poem!" Burnamy laughed at the notion.

"It's only eight lines." "Oh!" said the girl.