22 The Diary of a Drug Fiend
“O Thou crimson vintage of life, that art poured
into the jar of the grave! I adore Thee, Evoe!
I adore Thee, I A O!”
Lou reached the table, with its dirty, crazy cloth, at
which we were sitting. She looked straight into my
eyes, though I am sure she did not see me.
“O Thou red cobra of desire, that art unhooded
by the hands of girls! I adore Thee, Evoe! I
adore Thee, I A O!” |
She went back from us like a purple storm-cloud,
sun-crested. torn from the breasts of the morning by
some invisible lightning.
“‘Q Thou burning sword of passion, that art
torn on the anvil of flesh! I adore Thee, Evoe!
I adore Thee, I A O!”
A wave of almost insane excitement swept through
the club. It was like the breaking out of anti-aircraft
guns. The band struck up a madder jazz.
The dancers raved with more tumultuous and breath-
less fury.
Lou had advanced again to our table. We three were
detached from the world. Around us rang the shrieking
laughter of the crazy crowd. Lou seemed to listen.
She broke out once more.
“O Thou mad whirlwind of laughter, that art
meshed in the wild locks of folly! I adore Thee,
Evoe! I adore Thee, I A O!”
I realised with nauseating clarity that Mrs. Webster
was pouring into my ears an account of the character
and career of King Lamus.
“I don’t know how he dares to come to England
at all,” she said. “ He lives in a place called Telepylus,
wherever that is. He's over a hundred years old, in