his revenge be more savory if he does?
You’ll not be going on alone, Tom.
He scans his memory for sundry Venetians black-affronted by any of their little enterprises or by Tom’s being so very nimble in the act of friction with their ladies. But no known face, merchant, spouse or father, is conjured in Valentine’s mind by these ruminations: just the anonymous silhouette of a monster raising the dagger again and again over Tom’s cringing form.
From up on the stage the Italian actress tugs at his attention. Suddenly, she has it all. The jaws of the music are snapping around her. Now she parleys with the man who will save her from ravishment. And there’s the would-be ravisher himself, a fine pinguid specimen, hair black as a sooty raven, staking his claim with a lewd motion of the hips, forcing into Valentine’s unwilling mind the memory of those inexplicable and unbearable words in Smerghetto’s letter: “And his face was raped with fish.”
A snake is eating his heart. He cannot bear it. He half-rises to leave.
Then the heroine utters a raw-boned cry of agony and commences to weep utterly genuine and copious tears. Valentine drops back in his seat.
Damn me if she’s not the most delectable woman I ever saw in a public place.
In that moment, every flea, satisfied or not, departs from Valentine’s electrified body and finds other accommodation in the pit. He fumbles with the playbill, unwrapping the crushed ball of it in his hand. She goes under the soubriquet, he reads, of “Mimosina Dolcezza.”
Well, she would, wouldn’t she? Her breasties mouthfulling even from this distance, neat as a bee’s toe in that dress. You could run a mill with those tears.
By some freak of passage, a plump tear shaken from her lash flies suddenly across the pit and lands upon Valentine’s own mouth, slips in through that astonished hole, jackets his tongue in its salty melt, and kisses his tonsils like linctus.
Would you listen to that lady? In the blue yonder of my wildest dreams I never heard a voice like that.
The other actors on the stage are marionetting through their roles, and yet she puts flesh and blood into every word, butters every morsel of a body’s feelings with that creamy voice. Her song reaches out to Valentine and fondles his ears, runs a finger down his sensitive back. He feels a great heat in his heart and the parts adjacent to it.
And his head’s a-smoke with the ember of an idea.
His hands prickle as he looks back at the program. And by a grim and curious coincidence it turns out she’s Venetian herself, or so it suits the entrepreneur to style her in his fulsome biography of the actress.
And when she must show herself unhappy, she makes like a cat that is unwell, a dolefulness that loses nothing of its grace. No, really, she’s too dear for an ordinary body.
Something of her bearing brings to his mind the image of Tom’s orphaned daughter, now his ward, who Tom always insisted, had conversation so original as to still a party quite to rigor mortis, so intent did one become not to lose one mere word by interrupting the torrent with a reply. And such forest-floor ideas too as to give a body the lockjaw just to hear them. And she a large size of child and never let out of school to be interfered with by anyone!
It’s going to stay that way, too. That, at least, I can do for Tom.
The moustachioed villain menaces. There seems a real danger that the ingénue? , purity will be extinguished by the villain. Soft and languishing, she pleads her case, in breathy whispers and delicate coloratura. It is to no avail. He will debauch her. The actress faints. Her torso dips into a spillage of petticoats, and she concludes with her head coddled in a hand, ringlets splayed about her so her face is like a luminous egg in a soft nest. Valentine suddenly feels the comprehensive sensation of lying behind her, cradling her hip against his own. Astonishing. He glances at his neighbors, both men breathing hard,
You’ll not be going on alone, Tom.
He scans his memory for sundry Venetians black-affronted by any of their little enterprises or by Tom’s being so very nimble in the act of friction with their ladies. But no known face, merchant, spouse or father, is conjured in Valentine’s mind by these ruminations: just the anonymous silhouette of a monster raising the dagger again and again over Tom’s cringing form.
From up on the stage the Italian actress tugs at his attention. Suddenly, she has it all. The jaws of the music are snapping around her. Now she parleys with the man who will save her from ravishment. And there’s the would-be ravisher himself, a fine pinguid specimen, hair black as a sooty raven, staking his claim with a lewd motion of the hips, forcing into Valentine’s unwilling mind the memory of those inexplicable and unbearable words in Smerghetto’s letter: “And his face was raped with fish.”
A snake is eating his heart. He cannot bear it. He half-rises to leave.
Then the heroine utters a raw-boned cry of agony and commences to weep utterly genuine and copious tears. Valentine drops back in his seat.
Damn me if she’s not the most delectable woman I ever saw in a public place.
In that moment, every flea, satisfied or not, departs from Valentine’s electrified body and finds other accommodation in the pit. He fumbles with the playbill, unwrapping the crushed ball of it in his hand. She goes under the soubriquet, he reads, of “Mimosina Dolcezza.”
Well, she would, wouldn’t she? Her breasties mouthfulling even from this distance, neat as a bee’s toe in that dress. You could run a mill with those tears.
By some freak of passage, a plump tear shaken from her lash flies suddenly across the pit and lands upon Valentine’s own mouth, slips in through that astonished hole, jackets his tongue in its salty melt, and kisses his tonsils like linctus.
Would you listen to that lady? In the blue yonder of my wildest dreams I never heard a voice like that.
The other actors on the stage are marionetting through their roles, and yet she puts flesh and blood into every word, butters every morsel of a body’s feelings with that creamy voice. Her song reaches out to Valentine and fondles his ears, runs a finger down his sensitive back. He feels a great heat in his heart and the parts adjacent to it.
And his head’s a-smoke with the ember of an idea.
His hands prickle as he looks back at the program. And by a grim and curious coincidence it turns out she’s Venetian herself, or so it suits the entrepreneur to style her in his fulsome biography of the actress.
And when she must show herself unhappy, she makes like a cat that is unwell, a dolefulness that loses nothing of its grace. No, really, she’s too dear for an ordinary body.
Something of her bearing brings to his mind the image of Tom’s orphaned daughter, now his ward, who Tom always insisted, had conversation so original as to still a party quite to rigor mortis, so intent did one become not to lose one mere word by interrupting the torrent with a reply. And such forest-floor ideas too as to give a body the lockjaw just to hear them. And she a large size of child and never let out of school to be interfered with by anyone!
It’s going to stay that way, too. That, at least, I can do for Tom.
The moustachioed villain menaces. There seems a real danger that the ingénue? , purity will be extinguished by the villain. Soft and languishing, she pleads her case, in breathy whispers and delicate coloratura. It is to no avail. He will debauch her. The actress faints. Her torso dips into a spillage of petticoats, and she concludes with her head coddled in a hand, ringlets splayed about her so her face is like a luminous egg in a soft nest. Valentine suddenly feels the comprehensive sensation of lying behind her, cradling her hip against his own. Astonishing. He glances at his neighbors, both men breathing hard,
Similar Books
