“The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. And let ush go back to our brandewyn, and hollandsche genever. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. One comes at last to the step from dreams to reality. “I wonder what you could do?” he said. F. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon.
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