"I'm dumb. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her. You hurt the child. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. Whenever they stepped from the chairs, he stepped down.
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