Chapitre 14. A Propos of Herbs and Stewed Poetasters - printable version

"I pray you excuse me, fair sister and brother-in-law," said Meurtrier. "I must leave you for a time to see someone in regard to a wombat."

"Sans doute!" said Bilbette. "Au revoir, Meurtrier, and recommend that the wombat use a less fragrant perfume." Meurtrier blushed, collected his handkerchief, and wended to the secret smiau that led to a courtyard outside the apartments of one he loved dearer than cognac.

"Oh, Meurtrier!" said Valartine de Villefaramir. "I loveth thou!"

"And I-eth thou, beloved!" said Meurtier. "Couldeth I butteth clasp thee to my bosometh! Ah, thou art cruel! O cease to torment me, and accept my hand, my heart, and my fish! Or else tell me that my life and death mean nothing to you, that my happiness is but a game or a hobbite-piquenique in your eyes."

"Were but I, I wouldeth," said Valartine. "But alack! My cruel father hath destined me for Arafrantz d'Imrahil, who is like unto an abomination of the cuisine of the Snowmen unto me. It is true that my grandfather favoureth thou, but what can he do, paralysed as he is by the Valards for the sin of supporting the faction of Sharcoléon, and unable to communicate but through-eth smoke-rings?"

"Alas! Letteth us sing a love duet!"

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