If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. Its importance had vanished with her abandonment of compromise. " "Probably not. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 20-09-2024 22:04:07
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