All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. ” “I am convinced of it,” she answered. He understood. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him.
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