James Femms said nothing. His eyes, held and fascinated, drank in the fragrant loveliness of the amber noisette à cheval, thrilled under the thin, silvery aroma of its melodious oneness.
He was but distantly aware of a voice, Sonoff’s voice, far-away, elfin-sweet with the echoes of a hundred blending bells.
“Keep it, Jambes des Femmes, keep it always in proof and token of my gratitude! Keep it, des Femmes, in memory of Mikail Sonoff Sonoffovitch!”
James Femms did not know that he had gone.
A WORD ON POONING
By
Augustula Thomas
A WORD ON POONING
By