They went down the great staircase of the building, and, while she sought in her mind for a beginning, he broke into appreciation of her simple dress and selfcongratulations upon their engagement. We just hit against each other, and here we are flying off at a tangent, a little surprised at what we are doing, all our principles abandoned, and tremendously and quite unreasonably proud of ourselves. Plote was sleeping or deaf. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion.
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