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Maxwell, W. B., 1866-1938

"The Devil's Garden"

I scarce knew what I was saying--or
what I'm saying now."
"Oh! Just a remark let fall without a scrap o' sense in it!"
Staring up at him, it was as if she saw the face of a stranger. His
eyes were half closed and glittering fiercely; his lips protruded as
if grotesquely pouting to express scorn, and on each side of the
distended nostrils a deep vertical wrinkle showed like the blackened
gash of a knife wound.
"Will, dear, I meant nothing at all."
"You're lying."
Abruptly he took his hands from her shoulders, got off the bed, and
went to the chest of drawers. Her handbag was on the drawers; and when
she saw him pick it up she sprang after him, clutching at his hands
and imploring.
"You'll find nothing there. Nothing that I can't explain;" and she
made a desperate gurgling laugh. "Why, Will, old man, it is you that's
drunk, yourself, after chaffing me? No, you shan't. No, Will, you
shan't."
He gave her a back-hander that sent her reeling. It was the first time
he had struck her, and he delivered the blow quite automatically, the
thought that she was preventing him from opening the bag and the
action that got rid of her interference being all one process. His
hand had remained open, but he swung it with unhesitating force; and
now, as he plunged it into the bag, he saw that there was blood on it.


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