The young lady responded with a look of icy, almost reptilian,calm. She left countless words deliciously unsaid, relying on her antagonists to decipher the ever-contracting matrix of her feminine kinesthesis.

One blink for yes. Two for no.
A slight leftward tilt of her lovely head indicating pleasure.

These and more sat dormant in her expressive arsenal. She appeared only mildly interested in the approaching crowd. To each volley of partygoer insults she offered a childís gestures--the shrug of one politely declining comprehension and an angelís smile. As one of the crowd's more daring components 1 closed in for what he hoped was the final strike, he saw the angel's smile mounted solidly above the shrug and realized something. There is more than one kind of angel.

There is the kind of heavenly being one finds in children's books, flapping about with pillowy white wings, carrying the good word to troubled souls in need of retrospective photo-essays of their unfulfilled lives. There are also angels who serve as harbingers of the Most High, trumpeting his various comings and goings. The girl's smile belonged to neither of those angels. When a person seeks intercession from the lord for some earthly matter, and if the Lord sees fit to help out, angels are sent to intervene. They are led by Michael, an archangel whose name is also The Sword of the Lord. He is the right hand of judgement and the dispensation of the Law. The angel's smile the young man saw on Corinna's face was Michael's--a pristine arc terminating at a pair of mismatched apostrophes. Her smile was at once the face of a child and a talisman of heavenly might, both of which whispered, below the threshold of sound,

"I will pull down the sky."









1 He was a young fellow wearing a stretched canvas sandwich-board painted with the words, C'est ne pas un poet. Shortly after the fracas with Lady Corinna, he was struck with a blunt object as he entered one of the dining rooms. The object was described as "not being a pipe."