Chapter XLIII

Who shall say that his love was not good For the dummy of cloth and wax and wood? I know that more curious things exist Than the love of a dreaming ventriloquist.

He liked to perch her on his knee Combing her black hair lovingly, Then talk by the hour just as though She understood and ought to know.

Her chatter merged with his and twice, I know, he struck her ... it wasn't nice. Repenting, he bought her costly things-- Gowns, rare necklaces and rings.

One night they found him on the floor Stark dead ... each year I wonder more Why, killing himself, he never wrote Of the dagger he sank in her wooden throat.