He gave me the address of the license bureau, on Rue Oskaloosa or something. The driver knew where it was.
Monsieur du License surprised me by asking for a picture and taking my description, which I could almost have rhymed by this time—
Hair jet black, but a paucity of it;
Forehead high as the Eiffel tower;
Prominent nose, but it’s mine; I love it;
Eyes the brown of the pansy flower;
Medium mouth, not the best for kisses;
Chin as round as a billiard ball;
Dark complected—Oh, Mister, this is
Me, and I’m better than six feet tall.