A parisian street scene blows a farewell kiss to your hero. He turns right, through a gate painted green, and disappears up stone stairs, worn slightly in the middle due to the tramp of years. Before he leaves the street, he glances up and down. Seeing you, he fixes his gaze for just a moment. In his eyes you see...

He is mine also of course, hero that is. Why else I would not be writing this now?

I met him first when I was thirty three years old. Our first meeting went something like this:

A parisian street scene blows a farewell kiss to your hero. He turns right, through a gate painted green, and disappears up stone stairs, worn slightly in the middle due to the tramp of years. Before he leaves the street, he glances up and down. Seeing you, he fixes his gaze for just a moment. In his eyes you see...

He is mine also of course, hero that is. Why else I would not be writing this now?

I met him first when I was thirty three years old. Our first meeting went something like this:

A parisian street scene blows a farewell kiss to your hero. He turns right, through a gate painted green, and disappears up stone stairs, worn slightly in the middle due to the tramp of years. Before he leaves the street, he glances up and down. Seeing you, he fixes his gaze for just a moment. In his eyes you see...

He is mine also of course, hero that is. Why else I would not be writing this now?

I met him first when I was thirty three years old. Our first meeting went something like this:

He shouts this time: Hey! Stop staring!