” Her first upward glance was one of terrified apprehension. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent’s Park. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’ ‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. Then her white teeth gleamed, and her excuse for remaining any longer before that little marble table was gone.
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