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Recreation, writing poetry. Adult, Hon. Zfwinski, X. Z.: Polish pianist; plays all night; address 4,570 West 457 Street, Westside, Chicago West. XII. Passionate Paragraphs His voice as he turned towards her was taut as a tie-line. "You don't love me!" he hoarsed, thick with agony. She had angled into a seat and sat sensing-rather-than-seeing him. For a time she silenced.
"What d' ye mean?" sez he, comin' up to me as straight as he c'u'd. "Why, Bill," sez I, "our little girl my little girl Allie, you know she's dead." I hoarsed up so I couldn't say much more. And Bill didn't say nothink at all; he jest reached me his hand, and he took my hand and seemed like in that grasp his heart spoke many words of comfort to mine.
"Steady!" hoarsed the Parson, blue eyes gleaming through the window. "Don't look down! Aim at her chest! Wait till you can see the roll of her eye!" Kit heard nothing, saw nothing, but a foam-splashed breast, a nodding head, racing knees, and reaching feet. All the world for him was in that black and shining bosom. It grew upon him as he looked. It was no more a chest.
Get it out in bits. M'appari, Simon, Father Cowley said. Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly he sang to a dusty seascape there: A Last Farewell. A headland, a ship, a sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon the headland, wind around her.
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