But it pleased her to play on my passion / And whet me to pleadings / That won from her mirthful negations / And scornings undue.

The pitcher now has two walks in this inning alone.

There was something kiddish about Clotilde, something especially kiddish as she strode along the winding country road, face uplifted, tinted with peach-blow color in either cheek, eyes bland and untroubled as an infant's, red lips parted over even white teeth, her whole slender body thrown, with a kind of kiddish abandon, into the business of getting ahead. Boyish she might have been called, not only for the clean-cut freshness of her face, but for the slimness of her hips, the unexaggerated curves of her uncorseted waist the flatness of her bosom on which the round little twin promontories were hardly noticeable when the wind threw her into momentary reliefs suggestive of the Winged Victory: boyish she might have been called if it be permitted to speak of a delicately-featured, prefect-complexioned, smooth-limbed boy as girlish. Lacking this permission, the boyish must at once be withdrawn, and finely girlish substituted.

Poirot's lips moved. Inspector Colgate leaned forward. Poirot was murmuring, It's so difficult to know which pieces are part of the fur rug and which are the cat's tail.