I Was Sorry for the Tyrantess, for She Was in a Bad Way

The more dense i was to her increasing love, the more she suffered. She would be fierce and sullen and anon gracious and melancholy. In the latter mood, she said one day as i sat by her bicelium, i am ill and pale, my centurion. I wonder you have not noticed it, perhaps, madam. So perhaps your ladyship's supper last night was over large and late. And those lamp rays? I warned you against them that third time, gross material exclaimed. Finer malady, a subtler pain. Then maybe the valley air affects my lady's liver. Or rheumatism perhaps exacts a penalty for some