“t of cold” (Patruno Sherling, Spammer Lifting Text From a Writer Who Himself Piggybacked Upon Edgar Allan Poe – Regurgitated Here Yet Again): A Commentary on Modern Poetry

Remixed Photo – Seedermaster
Wikipedia

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

—Carl Sandburg

 ________________________

[Ed. note: This usurped text from an email spam folder has been found to be original text from The Black Cat: A Play in Three Acts (based on a Edgar Allan Poe short story), by John Todhunter, and released into the public domain for any use, including, presumably, for that of notorious email spammers selling dodgy products or setting up malware links for incredibly stupid recipients who click on anything.] 

[As found, except for manipulated line breaks, removed character names, some punctuation tweaks, and upper and lower case changes.]

[I] mean

to live it out.

But your husband?

You married again,

did you not?

Yes.

Fancy a woman

making that mistake

twice!

But, you see,

I was in an equivocal position.

I had left

my first husband;

I don’t want to conceal

my misdeeds,

Oh, don’t expect

paving stones

from an old woman like me!

I judge every case on its own merits.

I know what men are,

though I’ve been content

to gain my experience

at my friends’ expense.

I tell ye,

I know more

about the ins and outs

of marriages

than most married women,

just as the curler

on the bank

sees most of the game.

You mayn’t have been

anything worse than a fool,

and ye mayn’t have been

even that.

Thank you.

I was a fool,

of course

You see, my first

marriage was a mistake

altogether.

It was my mother’s doing.

I knew nothing

of marriage, or love –

either, for that matter.

That came afterwards,

and – all the scandal.

And may I ask,

young woman,

have you run away

from your second husband?

You say

that marriage was

a mistake too? No.

He is dead now,

But you don’t —

(Looks at her dress.)

No, I don’t

afficher

eternal bereavement.

We were separated for two years.

Poor Blanche!

Then it was not a success?

No, it was

not a success.

Well, we mustn’t

ask why?

Oh, I’m in the humour

for confession.

I think

you can understand.

We got on well

enough while I was –

free.

But he did the chivalrous thing —

asked me to marry

him; and I was glad

enough to scramble back

to the platform

of respectability.

Well, I understand

that, anyhow.

That seemed to kill

the romance,

such as it was.

I need not go

into the sordid details,

but we quarreled

finally about money —

my money.

My husband

took to gambling

in stocks. But I have managed

to keep my little pittance,

fortunately. Well, that is enough

of my affairs.

Have you any children,

Constance?

One little girl,

just nine.

Have you any?

No – none,

A woman

who has had

such

unpleasant

experiences

ought to

hate and despise

men.

But o