Her mouth, so
sadly downturned at the corners, had sweetened to a smile of perfect
and serene content.
But the men will not believe he washed away the sadness of her looks
with alcohol and turpentine. "I did not touch the head. I am certain I
did not," he repeated.
"Then how can you explain----"
"Oh, heaven!" he answered. "Put a child in any woman's arms."
LENA WRACE
By MAY SINCLAIR
(From _The Dial_)
1921, 1922
She arranged herself there, on that divan, and I knew she'd come to
tell me all about it. It was wonderful, how, at forty-seven, she could
still give that effect of triumph and excess, of something rich and
ruinous and beautiful spread out on the brocades. The attitude showed
me that her affair with Norman Hippisley was prospering; otherwise she
couldn't have afforded the extravagance of it.
"I know what you want," I said. "You want me to congratulate you."
"Yes. I do."
"I congratulate you on your courage."
"Oh, you don't like him," she said placably.
"No, I don't like him at all."
"He likes you," she said.
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