Most of my people are upstairs dressing for dinner. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. He was conscious of a quickening of his heartbeat and the familiar rise of adrenalin that sent his senses soaring in anticipation. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something.
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