"You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. And now— I suppose I should be considered too old. She declined and finished with a few of her favorite excerpts from Scheherazade.
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