"He writes poetry--about me," she remarked, handing me what I
recognised as the three-cornered note.
I took the thing between finger and thumb, and glanced over the
poem. I have read much indifferent modern verse in my time--I
sometimes take a slush-bath after tea at the club--but I could
not have imagined the English language capable of such emulsion.
It was execrable. The first couplet alone contained an idea.
"Thou art a lovely girl and so very nice
I dream till death upon your face."
To the wretch's ear it was a rhyme! I destroyed the noisome
thing and cast it into the waste-paper basket.
"Prison," said I, "would be a luxurious reward for him. In a
properly civilised country he would be bastinadoed and hanged."
"Yes, he is dam bad," said Carlotta, serenely.
"Good heavens!" I cried, "the ruffian has even taught you to
swear. If you dare to say that wicked word again, I'll punish
you severely. What is his horrid name?"
"Pasquale," said Carlotta.
"Pasquale?"
"Yes, he likes to hear me say 'dam.
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