Travel, Like Dreams, Is A Door That

One Sometimes Weeps Over One's Illusions With As Much Bitterness As Over A Death.

And Taking Her Friend’s Hand, She Put It On Her Breast, On That Firm Round Covering Of A Woman’s Heart Which The Male Often Finds So Satisfying That He Makes No Attempt To Find What Lies Beneath It.

Anguish Of Suspense Made Men Even Desire The Arrival Of Enemies.

To Avoid Each Other, Their Eyes Had Developed An Amazing Mobility With All The Cunning Of Enemies Fearful Of Meeting Each Other Head On.

She Was A Sweet Girl But Not Really Pretty, A Rough Sketch Of A Woman With A Little Of Everything In Her, One Of Those Silhouettes Which Artists Draw In Three Strokes On The Tablecloth In A Café After Dinner, Between A Glass Of Brandy And A Cigarette. Nature Sometimes Turns Out Creatures Like That.