She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. You know what's what. “I thank you for your advice,” she said. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. Am I quite hidden?" "Not quite;—keep your feet in. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. And for my part, if I were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in favour of some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical Magdalene.
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