and still the demons of our pity spoke: no lips would share the lipstick of her smoke; the telephone that rang before a ball every two minutes in sorosa hall for her would never ring; and, with a great screeching of tires on gravel, to the gate out of the lacquered night, a white-scarfed beau would never come for her; she’d never go, a dream of gauze and jasmine, to that dance.
- vladimir nabokov, "pale fire"
hpb vs the hills vs brian yazzie
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