Not the angels in heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
The moth's kiss, dearest. He was in a boat with red sails, in the stern of a boat with red lateen sails and she was in his arms and her hair was fluffy against his cheek, and the boat leapt on the waves and they were drenched in droning fragrance off the island to windward, wet rose gardens, clover fields, fresh-cut hay, tarry streets, Mary Garden perfume. That perfume was common like saying ain't.
Sudden panic seized him. The clock was at twenty-five past. Gosh, only thirty-five minutes for those two questions! The nib of his fountain pen was dry. He shook a drop out on the floor before he began to write.
[II]
"And did I tell you he said you played as if you had a soul?"
They were standing beside the coat-rack. Miss Fitzhugh was doing up her gloves with little jerky movements of a hairpin, talking all the while breathlessly. From the parlor at the end of the narrow green-papered hall came a whiff of tea and the sound of cups clinked against saucers.
"What he said was.... You won't mind if I tell you all, will you dear...? Anyway, I've always admired your way of playing Chabrier. He said your technique was rotten, but that you had a soul. And he turned down Mrs. Glendinning to come here this afternoon, honest he did. Will you turn on the light a sec, my hat's crooked ... There!..."
Miss Fitzhugh put back the hairpin and made a few jabs at the hair under her hat.
"If you want my plain opinion ... O, I do look a sight ... I think you've made a conquest, Nancibel. O, you are a lucky girl! And that Wendell boy's dreadfully good looking.... Well, I must go." Miss Fitzhugh drew the taller girl down on her firm plump bosom and kissed her moistly—"Just think of being loved by Salinski!" She kissed Nancibel on the mouth again and fled with a little giggle out the door.