“Now you are being both morbid and improper.”
“I’m not morbid. Am I, Jan?”
“No I do not call you morbid. I call Gracie Harter-Jones morbid.”
“Who is she?”
“We met her at Mrs. Mackinley’s. She says she is perfectly miserable unless she is in a morbid state. She’s written a book called ‘The Purple Shawl of Ceremony.’ ”
“She must be awfully clever.”
“She’s mad. She revels in being mad. Like ‘the Sun shivered. Earth from its darkest basements rocked and quivered.’ ”
“Oh go I said and see the swans harping upon the rooftops in the corn. Where is the grey felt hat I saw go down, wrinkled and old to meet the lily-leaf, where where my child the little stick that crushed the wild infernal apple of the pit where where the pearl. Snarling he cried I will not