To come again to Carthage.’”
Apple.
“‘On such a night did young Pulito strive
T’ unseal the fount of feeling in his heart,
And be poetic—but he could not do it.’”
Pulito. “The air is like the breath of birds.”
Apple. “Such birds as caged pullets and mousing owls, probably, ha! ha!”
Pulito. “And then the cemetery, and these streets high-overarched with their verdant walls of inwoven shade.”
Apple. “Poetical, i’faith! My only amusement in the burying-ground, as an unsophisticated gentleman like myself would call it, is to read the queer old epitaphs.”
Nescio. “And mark how not even the ear of Death is secure from the poison of flattery.”