"What's that paper? Are you tearing it?"
"Just a blank sheet the good Sheriff left on his desk. I hope he won't miss it. Not tearing, love, building. It's my crown, Cecil. I need a pin. Is that a pin in your lapel?"
"Yes—here."
"Thanks. That'll do it. Ouch! Well, nothing created without pain. How does it look?"
"Royal."
"Does it suit my complexion?"
"White and ivory—yes, not bad."
"Is it all right for a queen to suck a pin-pricked finger?"
"Rank has its privileges."
"Good. So, not a lady of Theleme but a mere queen, I'll do my best while I have authority. This object shaped like a ruler is my scepter, and this apparent ink-bottle—no, if rank has its privileges, we'll omit the orb and you give me a cigarette. You may light it for me, and remember you have the right at any time to be seated in my presence. My lord, do you have any defense to set forth in favor of this mewling monster, this three-billion-headed lurching mooncalf humanity?"