“When I’m excited by pleasure,” said the girl, “I sing Tiger-eyes.”
“Does it subdue you?”
She looked at him. “No.”
Still standing, she looked down at the keys, struck the muffled chords softly.
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“Tiger-eyes Tiger-eyes, Where do they go, Far in the dark Over the snow? Into the dark, Over the snow, Only the ghosts of the dead men know Where they have come from, whither they go, Riding at night by the corpse-light glow, Slava! Slava! Over the snow.” |
“Well, for the love of Mike–––”
Marya’s laughter pealed.
“So you don’t like Tiger-eyes?” she demanded, coming from behind the piano.
“I sure don’t,” he admitted.
“The real Russian name of the song is ‘Words! Words!’ And that’s all the song is––all that any song is––all that anything amounts to––words! words!––” She dropped onto the long couch,––“Anything except––love.”