Volume IV Part 21 (2/2)
”You've got a hinge in your back,” said he, ”they open you in the middle; your head flies back. How the blood must run down. And then you're full of brimstone matches. He! he!” and the Cat-made-of-worsted grinned out loud. The Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound spoke again, and sighed:
”I am of Parian, you know, and there is no one else here of Parian except yourself.”
”And the greyhound,” said the Parian girl.
”Yes, and the greyhound,” said he eagerly. ”He belongs to me. Come, a gla.s.s case is nothing to it. We could roam; oh, we could roam!”
”I don't like roaming.”
”Then we could stay at home, and lean against the greyhound.”
”No,” said the Parian girl, ”I don't like that.”
”Why?”
”I have private reasons.”
”What?”
”No matter.”
”I know,” said the Cat-made-of-worsted. ”I saw her behind. She's hollow.
She's stuffed with lamp-lighters. He! he!” and the Cat-made-of-worsted grinned again.
”I love you just as much,” said the steadfast Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound, ”and I don't believe the Cat.”
”Go away,” said the Parian girl, angrily. ”You're all hateful. I won't have you.”
”Ah!” sighed the Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound.
”Ah!” came another sigh--it was from the China-girl-rising-out-of-a-pen-wiper--”how I pity you!”
”Do you?” said he eagerly. ”Do you? Then I love you. Will you marry me?”
”Ah!” said she; ”but--”
”She can't!” said the Cat-made-of-worsted. ”She can't come to you. She hasn't got any legs. I know it. I'm fifty years old. I never saw them.”
”Never mind the Cat,” said the Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound.
”But I do mind the Cat,” said she, weeping. ”I haven't. It's all pen-wiper.”
”Do I care?” said he.
”She has thoughts,” said the bronze Monk-reading-a-book. ”That lasts longer than beauty. And she is solid behind.”
”And she has no hinge in her back,” grinned the Cat-made-of-worsted.
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