(xx) Russell Stays with Milton Welch

Well sir, it's about nine o'clock in the evening as we approach the small house halfway up on the next block now. And here on the front porch enjoying the cool night here we discover Mr. and Mrs. Victor go.

Conversations bend languid and desalchery and a moment ago ceased altogether. But at length Vic yawns luxuriously and says... How about bid? You keep saying how about bid every couple minutes but you still sit there?

Go on and go to bed. I do want to go by myself. I'm afraid of the dark. the dark. You're as transparent as Michoud. You want me to go upstairs with you, so I'll turn on lights and throw back sheets and dig off the jamas and pull down shades.

You don't want to get stuck with any chores. Why, what a gross injustice you do, Miss City. You've got like sensitive persons like myself or forever, being misunderstood. I cried all night last night just thinking about it.

What was it the port, Keats said to the port brown and on the occasion when he held a dandelion underneath his chin to determine enough? Oh, and shake it off so tired of the poor cheats in the pote browning sometimes.

I bet you want something deep before you go to bed. A very tiny soup sound of something extra toothsome might beguile me. Soup? Soup sound. Soup sound is a French word meaning a small morsel or a little taste.

It's spelled S-O-U-P-C-O-N. In polite society the guests scout around the drawing room and shriek at the butter to go fetch another soup sound or salad dressing or another soup sound or raspberry sherbet. Who still had an arm of speak hung for round steak from day before yesterday a nice box?