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She was a lovely little thing with a lovely name, Lupoba-Tilaana, "Mist-on-the-Mountain." "Swank," I said, "that's a ten-strike. The mountain is a little out of focus but the mist is immense!" He squirted me with yellow ochre. Whinney was in his element. Ornithology, botany, ethulology, he took them all on single-handed.
Blessed little Lupoba, my Mist-on-the-Mountain. How can I desert you? How can we any of us desert our wives let us stay, let us live, and, if we must, let us die. Love is more than life." It was a powerful appeal. Overwrought as I was, I nearly succumbed to the false reasoning which was but the expression of my desire.
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