Filling her compact delicious body
with chicken pprika， she glanced at me
twice.
Fainting with interest， I hungered back
and only the fact of her husband four other people
kept me from springing on her
or falling at her little feet and crying
'You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry's dazed eyes
have enjoyed， Brilliance1.' I advanced upon
（despairing） my spumoni.Sir Bones： is stuffed，
de world， wif feeding girls.
Black hair， complexion2 Latin， jewelled eyes
downcast . . . The slob beside her feasts . . . What wonders is
she sitting on， over there？
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong？ There ought to be a law against Henry.
Mr. Bones： there is.