' Which dog? Not the
dingo dog."
I verily believe my brain worked wrong to-day.
Great Scotland Yard at last. I went through passages. I found
myself in a nondescript room where a courteous official seated at
a desk held me on the rack for half an hour. I had to describe
Carlotta: not in the imagery wherein only one could create an
impression of her sweetness, but in the objective terms of the
police report. What was she wearing? A hat, and jacket, a
skirt, shoes ; of course she wore gloves; possibly she carried a
muff. Impatient of such commonplace details, I described her
fully. But the glory of her bronze hair, her great dark brown
eyes, the quivering sensitiveness of her lips; her intoxicating
compound of Botticelli and the Venusberg; the dove-notes of her
voice; all was a matter of boredom to Scotland Yard. They
clamoured for the colour of her feathers and the material of
which her dress was made; her height in vulgar figures and the
sizes of her gloves and shoes .
"How on earth can I tell you?" I cried in desperation.
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