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Angellotti, Marion Polk, 1894-1979

"The Firefly of France"

The duke and duchess were at the chateau
talking with the _blesses_; for the second time Dunny had tactfully
disappeared. The approach of evening had spurred my faltering courage.
As the first rosiness of sunset touched the skies beyond Raincy-la-Tour
and lay across the water, I sat at the side of the only girl in the
world and poured out my plea.
"It isn't fair, you know," I mourned. "I've only a few minutes. I
shouldn't wonder if we heard your car honking for you in half an
hour. To make a girl like you look at a man like me would take days of
eloquence, and, besides, who would think of marrying any one with his
head bound up Turkish fashion as mine is now?"
She laughed, and at the silvery sound of it I plucked up a hint of
courage; for surely, I thought, she wasn't cruel enough to make game
of me as she turned me down. Still, I couldn't really hope. She was too
wonderful, and my courtship had been too inadequate. Despondent, arms on
my knees, I harped upon the same string.
"I've never had a chance to show you," I lamented, "that I am civilized;
that I know how to take care of you and put cushions behind you and
slide footstools under your feet, and--er--all that.


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