At the table beyond us
With her little suede slippers off,
With her white-stocking’d feet
Carefully kept from the floor by a napkin,
She converses:
 
‘Connaissez-vous Ostende?’
 
The gurgling Italian lady on the other side of the
restaurant
Replies with a certain hauteur,
But I await with patience,
To see how Celestine will re-enter her slippers.
She re-enters them with a groan.

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