From the huge golden windows of the ancient palace, I could see her pale skin as she walked alone through the autumn leaves of the orchard. And I suddenly wanted to touch her face. As she looked up and met my gaze, her sinuous lips suggested a smile...but her eyes were hard. I moved with great celerity when I heard steps coming my way, but instead of going back to the dining hall—where a huge retirement party, featuring many paeans, was being held for his long years of military service—I crossed the hall and entered the garden, while hiding behind some trees. “why aren’t you celebrating your husband’s victories with all of his friends?” I whispered. Suddenly she breathed short and she might have broken out into some dangerous ebullition, had not I touched her gently on the arm. Two failed marriages, she sobbed, while she whispered: “plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose..."
And the Lacrimae Rerum award goes to... Herbert Hemp!" Yelped the gaucherie MC as he pulled a baroque simulacrum of some demon, the "award". Herbert's face paled, overwhelmed with lassitude and shame, finally working his way out of his seat to slump through the crowd as they pointed, laughed and booed. That's when he fell off the bed and saw he had overslept.
"Angry didn't even touch on the minatory look that she shot toward the man holding the camera. His insouciant attitude fueled her ire a fond, as he continued to snap away. Turning her head she uttered a quick oath that included something about the photographer being condenmed to languish on on a bed of nails while being stabbed by a thousand pitch forks. Her companion chuckled at her ben trovato statement and he couldn't help the small smile that played across her lips as she leaned in toward him, momentarily forgetting the photographer."
There was something about the way he acted. He had about him an echt sense of his own identity which made me feel relaxed in his presence. Though his conversations dipped into an almost prolix state from time to time it wasn't enough to make me worry. There was, however, the incident where he referred to me as a virago but the sly smile that made its way onto the corner of his mouth, eo ipso, made everything okay. It was never the surfeit of passion that made me leave.
in a single square you can see on one side a stage with mountebanks performing merry but monstrously indecent fares, and on the other, another stage with priests performing farces of a different complexion and shouting out: 'Take no notice of those wretches, gentlemen; the Pulcinello you are flocking to is a feeble fool; here (displaying the crucifix) is the genuine Pulcinello!'
"As she walked hurriedly through the dark narrow streets, she repined for her two kids she could no longer see. Silently she cried, knowing that her rather quixotic self had led her there - a place unknown, discovered only by beasts. Once an assiduous teacher, striving for perfection...now she only waits for men. There's no a priori reason for her to think she's safe. She can't turn back, she's almost there. Everyone's quiescent at that time of day. She slowly pushes the gate enters the cheap motel. And waits."