You know more about sculpture than what I do, Dirk, but you don’t know the foist thing about rugs.

The cloud had sunk, and filled with fold on fold The chimneyed city; so the smoke rose not, But spread diluted in the cloud, and fell A black precipitate on miry streets, Where dim grey faces vision-like went by, But half-awake, half satisfied with sleep.

He bellied up to the bar as soon as he saw a free stool.

Una, his dear dread