We can only deeply regret this unfortunate misunderstanding, and assure you of our unfailing regard.

Again, thanking you for your kind contribution, and hoping to receive more from you in the near future, we remain, etc." There was also a postscript to the effect that though The Billow carried no free-list, it took great pleasure in sending him a complimentary subscription for the ensuing year.
After that experience, Martin typed at the top of the first sheet of all his manuscripts: "Submitted at your usual rate." Some day, he consoled himself, they will be submitted at _my_ usual rate.
He discovered in himself, at this period, a passion for perfection, under the sway of which he rewrote and polished "The Jostling Street," "The Wine of Life," "Joy," the "Sea Lyrics," and others of his earlier work.
As of old, nineteen hours of labor a day was all too little to suit him.
He wrote prodigiously, and he read prodigiously, forgetting in his toil the pangs caused by giving up his tobacco.

Ruth's promised cure for the habit, flamboyantly labelled, he stowed away in the most inaccessible corner of his bureau.

Especially during his stretches of famine he suffered from lack of the weed; but no matter how often he mastered the craving, it remained with him as strong as ever.

He regarded it as the biggest thing he had ever achieved.