As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he'd accept it. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She reached for the door handle. She had come across the wicked South Seas which were still infested with cannibals; she had seen drunkenness and called men beachcombers; who was this moment as innocent as a babe, and in the next uttered some bitter wisdom it had taken a thousand years of philosophy to evolve.
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