SHE fanned herself with a violet fan
and looked sulky, under the thick straight brows.
The wisp of modern black mantilla
made her half Madonna, half Astarte.
Suddenly her yellow-brown eyes looked with a flare into mine;
— we could sin together! —
The spark fell and kindled instantly on my blood,
then died out almost as swiftly.
She can keep her sin
She can sin with some thick-set Spaniard.
Sin doesn’t interest me.