of her ingratitude.
What could he do more? And yet she spends, spends as
never before.
It is ridiculous. Can she not enjoy life at a smaller
figure?
Was ever monarch plagued with so extravagant an ex-wife. She
owes
her chocolate-merchant, her candle-merchant, her sweetmeat purveyor;
her grocer, her butcher, her poulterer; her architect, and the shopkeeper
who sells her rouge; her perfumer, her dressmaker, her merchant
of shoes.
She owes for fans, plants, engravings, and chairs. She
owes
masons and carpenters, vintners, lingeres. The ladys
affairs
are in sad confusion.
And why? Why?
Can a river flow when the spring is dry?
Night. The Empress sits alone, and the clock ticks, one
after one.
The clock nicks off the edges of her life. She is chipped
like
an old bit of china; she is frayed like a garment of last years
wearing.
She is soft, crinkled, like a fading rose. And each minute
flows by
brushing against her, shearing off another and another petal.
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