If, of all words of tongue or pen, The saddest are, ‘It might have been,’ More sad are these we daily see; ‘It is, but hadn’t ought to be!’
If, of all words of tongue or pen, The saddest are, ‘It might have been,’ More sad are these we daily see; ‘It is, but hadn’t ought to be!’
I ran away twice; once at about 13, and once at 17. There is not much satisfaction in it, even as a recollection. It was a couple of disappointments, particularly the first one. The heroics squish out of such things so promptly.
