What literature is more literature than Mother Goose?" said my friend Annabel Lee. "And will you love me—because I am good? Has it occurred to you that you must love what is good and because it is good, you poor, miserable, little rat,—and that you must hate what is evil? Look at me, look at me!—am I good?"
I looked at her. Certainly she was good. Just then she had a look of angels.
"Do you love me?" said my friend Annabel Lee, with her cigarette.
"Oh, yes," said I.
"Look at me again—am I evil?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"I presume you are," I replied, for then she looked vindictive and vicious.
"And do you hate me?"
"No," said I.
"Then you are very bad and wicked yourself, you poor, miserable, little rat," said my friend Annabel Lee, with her
