All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. I suppose I ought to have been a man. Do not believe it, Madam. Drink for him had a queer phase. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. ‘I am not in the least in a rage. . Fifty sent home. ” She laughed gaily. “If you come a step nearer to me,” she said, “I will smash every glass on this table. She is known everywhere within the radius of five hundred miles. ” Anna read, and her cheeks grew slowly scarlet.
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