“Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. They sell only their talents, not their bodies; they are not girls of the street. “Are these ordinary sapphires?” she said. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. ’ ‘Oh, don’t I? What do you have under all those petticoats, a holster?’ ‘But yes, and they are empty.
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