And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. Down on me luck, I was, and they took me in. "I'll find you out. I'm neither an infidel nor an agnostic, so I'll content myself by saying that the hand of God is in this somewhere. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe. Instead her point disengaged, dropped, and then the sword came up again and banged, flatbladed, onto Gosse’s wrist with such force that his own blade dropped from his grasp. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. It was a purse. I want to leave Paris to-day—this very day.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjE5MS4xMzIuMTkzIC0gMTQtMDYtMjAyNCAwMzo1MDowNSAtIDcwMjUxMjQ0OA==
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