light wrinkled the faces of the mirrors. People appeared to be shuffling at peculiarly acute angles. Would they topple over?
Lasca poured out champagne from the fifth bottle.
Le's drink a little before we go on! Le's have a drink.
She was lying in Byron's arms, frequently seeking his mouth.
Break away! Time! Byron heard Monte, passing the table, admonish them.
Music! I jesh love music, was all Byron could think of to say.
It was six o'clock when, with some assistance from one of the waiters, he emerged from the Winter Palace. He thanked the cold morning air for blowing in his face.
Taxi! Lasca was crying, apparently as fresh as when she had started out.
Have a whiff of snow, she urged him as they sat in the taxicab, his head nestled in her bosom.
Gimme, he muttered feebly.
From a packet she sifted a line of white crystals along her first finger.
Sniff the happy dust, baby. It'll make you feel better.
He made the effort. A cool, refreshing sniff—like water from a spring.
Opening the door of the cab, the chauffeur stuck his head through the aperture.
