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Updated: April 30, 2025
We had been reading together, she and I, as was become our custom. She had fetched me a volume of the lascivious verse of Panormitano, and we sat side by side on the marble seat in the garden what time I read to her, her shoulder touching mine, the fragrance of her all about me.
"Have I not bidden you leave the vulgarities of dialect to the vulgar?" quoth he. "Is there not enough written for you in Latin, that you must be wasting your time and perverting your senses with such poor illiterate gibberish as this? And what is it that you have there?" He took the book. "Panormitano!" he roared. "Now, there's a fitting author for a saint in embryo!
I read, curiously enthralled though whether by the beauty of the lines or the beauty of the woman there beside me I could not then have told you. Presently she checked me. "Leave now Panormitano," she said. "Here is something else upon which you shall give me your judgment."
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