I’ve never seen anybody who looked like that except at the end of a lance in another lifetime,
And his foppish delightful airs, his Watteau fragrance, his Spinoza eye, his Seymour Glass (or Seymour Wyse) elegance tho I then realize I’ve never seen anybody who looked like that except at the end of a lance in another lifetime, a regular blade who took long coach trips from Brittany to Paris maybe with Abelard to just watch bustles bounce under chandeliers, had affairs in rare cemeteries, grew sick of the city and returned to his evenly distributed trees thru which at least his mount knew how to canter, trot, gallop or take off—A coupla stone walls between Combourg and Champsecret, what matters it? A real elegant—
Which I told him right off, still studying his face to see if he was Jewish, but no, his nose was as gleeful as a razor, his blue eyes languid, his Devil’s Horns out-and-out, his feet out of sight, his French diction perfectly clear to anybody even old Carl Adkins of West Virginia if he’d been there, every word meant to be understood, Ah me, to meet an old noble Breton, like tell that old Gabriel de Montgomeri the joke is over—For a man like this armies would form.
