“That’s all right,” said the Kid. “Let’s have your clothes-brush, please.”
The bride waited in the rosy glow of the pink lamp-shade. The miracles were not all passed away. By breathing a desire for some slight thing—a flower, a pomegranate, a—oh, yes, a peach—she could send forth her man into the night, into the world which could not withstand him, and he would do her bidding.
And now he stood by her chair and laid the peach in her hand.
“Naughty boy!” she said fondly. “Did I say a peach? I think I would much rather have had an orange.”
Blest be the bride.