| { | "A handkerchief, dearest," she
murmured. "I was afraid "Your sandwiches, old thing," she gasped. "I believe | } |
| you'd forgotten | { | to take one;" about 'em;" | } | and she held out in her |
| { | white delicately-manicured hand a
silk handkerchief of palest mauve, exquisitely
scented. none-too-clean hand an untidy brown-paper parcel which contained his luncheon (Restaurant strike). | } |
NOTE TO INTENDING AUTHORS.—This is not supposed to be a complete story, but just gives you the idea.
AT PARIS PLAGE.
Oft have I begged the high gods for a boon,
That they would bear me from the Flanders slosh
Back to a desert not made by the Bosch,