"Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. “Me and my bright ideas. It is no good waiving the thing; it is true. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. ‘Why don’t you?’ Melusine frowned at him, grasping the dagger more firmly. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore.
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