Explore "Dalyrimple Goes Wrong" by F. Scott Fitzgerald on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The night came that drew him out upon his second venture, and as he walked the dark street he felt in himself a great resemblance to a cat -- a certain supple, swinging litheness. His muscles were rippling smoothly and sleekly under his spare, healthy flesh -- he had an absurd desire to bound along the street, to run dodging among trees, to turn "cart-wheels" over soft grass.
It was not crisp, but in the air lay a faint suggestion of acerbity, inspirational rather than chilling.