Bête, she told herself fiercely. Her voice was weak and flat. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. "Where did I hear that before?" "Perhaps that first day, in the water-clock tower. He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. "Hold!" cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; "they are nothing to me. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better.
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