"But I don't like them.

Tell me, pretty boy,"-- she looks suspicious,--"you haven't been taking any of the strange Egyptian drugs the dark people do be selling in the dim shops on the quiet canals?
Look out, pretty boy! Look out!" And the little cloak-maker grumbled when he was gone.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," says she.

"Or maybe it's something that's wrong with myself, but this delicate love isn't all it's cracked up to be.

It's all right in books," she says, "and it's a grand sight, and the players doing it; but I like a hug," she says, "would put the breath out of you, and a kiss," she says, "you could feel in the soles of your feet." And she lay awake and grumbled.