“But I have no troubles. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. The risk I run is nothing to yours. Let's talk of this chap. Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws.
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