you are indeed a pleasant thing, Although one must be damn’d for you, no doubt: I make a resolution every spring Of reformation, ere the year run out, But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, Yet still, I trust it may be kept throughout: I’m very sorry, very much ashamed, And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaimed. Lord Byron Don Juan, Canto the First “You should not have come,” Francesca again told Magny as she emerged from the dressing room. He’d left the window and planted himself on a chair in the boudoir. His hands folded upon the elaborate gold knob of the walking stick propped between his legs, he glowered at the floor. “I hear things,” he said. “They make me think you’ve taken leave of your senses.” “You are at liberty to think what you like.” She walked to the writing desk she often used as a receptacle for odds and ends of jewelry, scarves, gloves, creams, and lotions. She sank into the chair, and hunted through the bric-a-brac for her note paper and pen.
