I tell you—never mind the bill. You didn’t even do that Vee; not even that. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. PITT, the keeper of Newgate. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. Was it that the struggle of things to survive produced as a sort of necessary byproduct these intense preferences and appreciations, or was it that some mystical outer thing, some great force, drove life beautyward, even in spite of expediency, regardless of survival value and all the manifest discretions of life? She went to Capes with that riddle and put it to him very carefully and clearly, and he talked well—he always talked at some length when she took a difficulty to him—and sent her to a various literature upon the markings of butterflies, the incomprehensible elaboration and splendor of birds of Paradise and hummingbirds’ plumes, the patterning of tigers, and a leopard’s spots. That’s probably true. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. She shook her head.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 25-09-2024 18:05:04