Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. "Long life to the Marquis!" reiterated Terence; "he's an honour to ould Ireland!" "Didn't I tell you how it would be?" remarked Quilt. The world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers. She began to read, and presently she entered another world, and remained in it for two hours. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical.
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