With sadness.
Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hair behind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a hair. Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.
—It’s them has the fine times, sadly then she said.
A man.
Bloowho went by by Moulang’s pipes, bearing in his breast the sweets of sin, by Wine’s antiques in memory bearing sweet sinful words, by Carroll’s dusky battered plate, for Raoul.
The boots to them, them in the bar, them barmaids came. For them unheeding him he banged on the counter his tray of chattering china. And
—There’s your teas, he said.
Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray down to an upturned lithia crate, safe from eyes, low.
—What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.
—Find out, Miss Dou
