Would you parties mind tellin' me where you wants to go? he demanded.
I said, Now daddy, do you know any more tricks?
While he was . . .
Quite unexpectedly, Byron revived. He was restored, energetic.
Drive to hell! he cried.
Yes, drive to hell! Lasca echoed.
To hell! To hell! On to hell!
To hell with red hot mama and cold weather papa!
I'm not cold weather papa! he protested.
The chauffeur scratched his head. I guess you means duh Black Mass.
He started the car.
What's that? Byron inquired.
It's a garden where champagne flows from all the fountains and the paths are made of happy dust and the perfume of the poppies is opium. Kiss me!
I'd like to be cruel to you! she cried, after she had momentarily slaked her thirst. I'd like to cut your heart out!
Cut it out, Lasca, my own! It belongs to you!
I'd like to bruise you!
Lasca, adorable!
I'd like to gash you with a knife!
Lasca! Lasca!
