The prima donna, with her
French, and her paint, and her pearls, and the
prizefighter with his slang, and his cauliflower ear, and
his diamonds, seemed creatures of another planet. My
eyes closed. A delicious sensation of warmth and drowsy
contentment stole over me.
"Do listen to the purring of that cat!" I murmured.
"Oh, newspapers have no place in this. This is peace and
rest."
Alma Pflugel leaned forward in her chair. "You--you
like it?"
"Like it! This is home. I feel as though my mother
were here in this room, seated in one of those deep
chairs, with a bit of sewing in her hand; so near that I
could touch her cheek with my fingers."
Alma Pflugel rose from her chair and came over to
me. She timidly placed her hand on my arm. "Ah, I am so
glad you are like that. You do not laugh at the low
ceilings, and the sunken floors, and the old-fashioned
rooms. You do not raise your eyes in horror and say:
`No conveniences! And why don't you try striped wall
paper? It would make those dreadful ceilings seem
higher.' How nice you are to understand like that!"
My hand crept over to cover her own that lay on my
arm. "Indeed, indeed I do understand," I whispered.
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