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grace and flirtatious ways would have captured some thing worth while, perhaps phenominal!

Even my own interest in passionate paths might have been greater.

But, I fear in our old days, we are all losing the instinct to love.

After two weeks in Spain: Tom tired of its castles, and ran off to his Capri pastures and the life of the times of two hundred year B.C.--

Coleman and I wandered on thereafter, in paths of precocious virtue: spending two more weeks in northern Spain, a week in susceptible Paris and ten days in the open door

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of London.

My stay in Capri too, this year, resulted in two weeks of most moral diversion.  My impassioned hours were solely spent in gazing upon views as innocent as that shown in the accompanying photograph.

No wine wile it was red within the cup!

No listening to the sirens calling from the waves!

And so the days of we old men slipped quietly on and there was, I am glad to say, charm in the serenity, the ease, and the sympathy of old friendship and romance.

We were taking lessons in growing old and