I once met a decrepit old woman who lived on 7s. 6d. a week. She took a rapid review of the Universe and Life, and closed it by telling me that “things was just about coming to a Grand Pitch.” She will never be a parrot.
THE TORPID AND THE ILL-BRED CAT
“Cold eyes, sleek skin, and velvet paws,
You win my indolent applause,
You cannot win my heart.”
They “divided the time into small alternate allotments of eating and sleeping.”
