The Book of Andree

I believe it is so that Marcel ungenerously deprives any other soul in REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST of a nerve/blood/breath recollection that might be understood to challenge his own. We may be grateful for our own pleasure that this is true,
yet hath no sloshing pool of undifferentiated warm floods of past romance
Andree?
For she is true throughout
shewing what we shalt take for courage as none other,
to leap costive bankers,
and ride her bicycle from Balbec to Brest to Balbec;
to warm her blood with tender lips and buttons,
and to keep her wits
as Marcel
goes on and on and on AND ON.

Andree is noble, and kindly waits,
and truth she speckles on the scene
and would in her forties hop another fool
if filled with doughnuts and caffeine.