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Maxwell, W. B., 1866-1938

"The Devil's Garden"


He crossed a low rail, walked on a little way toward the water, and
then threw himself face downward on the grass. He knew where he was
now--in the present time, in a public pleasure-ground. London
stretched about the park, and beyond that there was the vast round
globe; beyond that again there was the universe; and it seemed to him
that, big as it all was, it was not big enough to hold one other man
and himself.
When, four or five hours later, he came back to the lodging-house he
found his wife dressed and sitting by the bedroom table. She had
contrived to wash away nearly all the marks of violence: one noticed
only the swollen aspect of the whole face, an inflamed eyebrow, and a
cut lip. She looked up meekly and fondly as a thrashed dog.
"Will, have you decided what you will do?"
"No."
Then, while getting together his things and beginning to pack, he told
her that he would take his fortnight's leave, as arranged, and
carefully consider matters. "And then, at the end of the fortnight, if
I'm above ground by that time, I'll let you know what I've decided."
But, on hearing this, she flopped from the chair to her knees, and
clung round him just as she had clung when he was first questioning
her.


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