after Austin Clarke Beautiful, sprightly and redhaired, my neat little girl is on the dancefloor. She suffers the heat, her high complexion on an only child a middle child?s affliction. She is my dead high-stepper, my make less pearl; light catches her specs and blanks her eyes. And when she is still she is not still she is quick and grave, body of grace, body of gall, golden skirts, white flounces and grassgreen smalls. The whole company, justly, hymns her cheek even the soldiers, rapping the butts of their revolvers against the front door are coltish as they cop her, beautiful, sprightly and redhaired, my neat little girl is on the dancefloor.