"Yes. Compromised by reverence, pilloried by tenderness—"
"Not reverence, Philidor. I'm only a little devil, after all."
"Then devils are angels in Vagabondia. Your wings are white, Hermia."
"They're trailing now—"
"Brave wings—fluttering—weary of flight. They shall fly no more—"
"Not alone—broader ones shall bear them company."
A pause.
"After to-morrow—shall we go?"
"Afoot, Philidor—as before."
And then. "Poor Clarissa!"