Her Letter I’M sitting alone by the fire Dressed just as I came from the dance, It’s a robe even you would admire,— It cost a cool thousand in France; I’m be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue: In short, sir, the “belle of the season” Is wasting an hour on you. A dozen engagements I’ve broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits—on the stairs—for me yet. They say he’ll be rich,—when he grows up, And then he adores me indeed. And you, sir, are … Читать далее →