SHE fanned herself with a violet fan
and looked sulky, under the
thick straight brows.
The wisp of modern black mantilla
made her half Madonna, half
Astarte.
Suddenly
her yellow-brown eyes looked with a flare into mine;
— we could
sin together! —
The spark fell and kindled instantly on my
blood,
then died out
almost as swiftly.
She can keep her sin
She can sin with some thick-set
Spaniard.
Sin
doesn’t interest me.