A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the water-stair. Lights, lights,
She entertains Sir Ferdinand
Klein. Who clipped the lion’s wings
And flea’d his rump and pared his claws;
Thought Burbank, meditating on
Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.
FROM
“WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD”[[14]]
By E. M. Forster
Harriet, meanwhile, had been coughing ominously at the drop-scene, which presently rose on the grounds of Ravenswood, and the chorus of Scotch retainers burst into cry. The audience accompanied with tappings and drummings, swaying in the melody like corn in the wind. Harriet, though she did not care for music, knew how to listen to it. She uttered an acid “Shish!”