How could
he have left her to that, he who had sworn that he would never leave
her? In every one of those letters beneath her linked fingers he had
sworn it--in every one perjured--false half a hundred times. Pick up
any one of them at random--
"Janie, you darling stick, is 'dear Jerry' the best that you can do?
You ought to learn French! I took a perfectly ripping French kid out
to dinner last night--name's Liane, from the Varietes--and she was
calling me '_mon grand cheri_' before the salad, and '_mon p'tit
amour_' before the green mint. Maybe _that'll_ buck you up! And I'd
have you know that she's so pretty that it's ridiculous, with black
velvet hair that she wears like a little Oriental turban, and eyes
like golden pansies, and a mouth between a kiss and a prayer--and a
nice affable nature into the bargain. But I'm a ghastly jackass--I
didn't get any fun out of it at all--because I really didn't even
see her. Under the pink shaded candles to my blind eyes it seemed
that there was seated the coolest, quietest, whitest little thing,
with eyes that were as indifferent as my velvety Liane's were kind,
and mockery in her smile. Oh, little masquerader! If I could get
my arms about you even for a minute--if I could kiss so much as
the tips of your lashes--would you be cool and quiet and mocking
then? Janie, Janie, rosy-red as flowers on the terrace and
sweeter--sweeter--they're about you now--they'll be about you always!"
Burn it fast, candle--faster, faster.
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