All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. “I am afraid that you are making a mistake,” she said. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. Despite her busy work schedule, Sheila had always been a social person, a talker, a joiner of neighborhood groups, a town council member, a PTA worker, and a thrower of neighborhood coffee klatches. She bussed his cheek with her small lips as he stood by the open door, and exited alone towards the sleeping house. He talked with his manner gentle and kindly. She despises me, I suppose. You seem altogether altered, too. Everything was going to hell. She went to her bedroom, but she did not go to bed.
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