All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression. She discovered him sitting upon the floor beside his open trunk. “I regret that you should ever have proposed it,” he went on. He worried me to marry him. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. The thought of beauty became an obsession. Maggot, whose nerves were more firmly strung, she contented herself with waving her hand affectionately to her lover, and encouraging him by her gestures. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. And me, I wish to know why you have seen him. Later that night, after she had cleaned herself and changed her clothes, he returned.
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