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Maxwell, W. B., 1866-1938

"The Devil's Garden"


And they too would have their night of love. He looked at his wife,
and felt his pulses stirred as much now as in the far-off days of
courtship--more, because then there was no experience of facts to
strengthen his imagination. He gently pressed her arm, and thrilled
at the mere contact. She was leaning back, fanning herself with her
program, and he observed the roundness and whiteness of her neck, the
flesh of her shoulder showing through the transparent sleeve of her
blouse, the moistness and warmth of her open lips.
Yet she had told him at Rodchurch Road Station that she was attractive
only to his eyes, and that she could never again arouse desire in
other men. What utter nonsense! She was simply adorable.


VII

They took a cab to drive back in, and he almost carried her up to
their bedroom. It was on the same floor as the other room, with the
same marvelous bird's-eye view of the starlit sky and the lamplit
town. He had got her to himself at last--here, high above the world,
half-way to heaven. There seemed to him something poetical, almost
sublime in their situation: they two alone, isolated, millions of
people surrounding them and no living creature able to interfere with
them.


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