We all undressed our too-tight coat of rhetoric in the sipping of tea.
We laughed, and laughed harder, not seeing what we were laughing at.
I couldn’t catch all of their names.
Such a delicious name as “Lily” was absurdly given to a girl with red blotches on her face.
(A few blemishes are a fascination, however, like slang thrown in the right place.)
Her flippancy was like the “buku buku” of a stream.
Lightness didn’t match with her heavy physique.
“How lovely an earthquake must be!” she chirruped. “Shall I go to Japan just on that account? A jolly moment I had last February. A baby earthquake visited here, as you know. I was drinking tea. The worst of it was that I let the cup tumble on to my pink dress. I prayed a whole week, nevertheless, to be called again.”
Woman has nothing to do with a hideous make-up. Miss Lily should not select a pink hue.
“You are awful!” I said.