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Updated: May 15, 2025
"And why not, mother!" said Sanchica; "would to God it were to-day instead of to-morrow, even though they were to say when they saw me seated in the coach with my mother, 'See that rubbish, that garlic-stuffed fellow's daughter, how she goes stretched at her ease in a coach as if she was a she-pope! But let them tramp through the mud, and let me go in my coach with my feet off the ground.
"You have been sleeping out, have you, master profligate?" "Yes, I was so charmed with the she-pope that I kept her company all the night." "You were not afraid of being in the way?" "On the contrary, I think she was thoroughly satisfied with my conversation." "As far as I can see, you had to bring into play all your powers of eloquence."
"You have been sleeping out, have you, master profligate?" "Yes, I was so charmed with the she-pope that I kept her company all the night." "You were not afraid of being in the way?" "On the contrary, I think she was thoroughly satisfied with my conversation." "As far as I can see, you had to bring into play all your powers of eloquence."
"And why not, mother!" said Sanchica; "would to God it were to-day instead of to-morrow, even though they were to say when they saw me seated in the coach with my mother, 'See that rubbish, that garlic-stuffed fellow's daughter, how she goes stretched at her ease in a coach as if she was a she-pope! But let them tramp through the mud, and let me go in my coach with my feet off the ground.
But when this master of the spell, not content to have laid a soul prostrate, goes on, in his power, to inflict more bliss than lies in her capacity to receive, impatient to overcome her "earthly" with his "heavenly," still pouring in, for protracted hours, fresh waves and fresh from the sea of sound, or from that inexhausted German ocean, above which, in triumphant progress, dolphin-seated, ride those Arions Haydn and Mozart, with their attendant tritons, Bach, Beethoven, and a countless tribe, whom to attempt to reckon up would but plunge me again in the deeps, I stagger under the weight of harmony, reeling to and fro at my wit's end; clouds, as of frankincense, oppress me priests, altars, censers, dazzle before me the genius of his religion hath me in her toils a shadowy triple tiara invests the brow of my friend, late so naked, so ingenuous he is Pope, and by him sits, like as in the anomaly of dreams, a she-Pope too, tri-coroneted like himself!
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