if I had, perchance, darling-- now I’m strictly speaking hypothetically, two doves, one white and one sort of greyish, you know, dirty and with a broken wing, probably sickly, about to ‘kick the can’ as some say, not me, of course,
but as some say, and I were, so to speak, in this cold earth-- dirty, and you so elegant, yet a dove, dying, with some grey, not pure pearl per se, but broken winged, would you still give me a smile, contemptuously, falling down like snow in dirt look over at me and still say, to dirt Comments are closed.
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