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Updated: June 5, 2025
Welles, too, was a locked and sealed strong-box of secrets. In the doorway Marsh stopped abruptly and said, looking at the dense, lustreless black silk wrap about Marise's head and shoulders, "What's that thing? I meant to ask you when you put it on." She felt as she often did when he spoke to her, as startled as though he had touched her.
No one coughed, or stirred, or scraped a chair-leg. It was as though a sound would have wounded the flower. All those human souls bowed themselves. Almost a light shone upon them . . . a phrase from Dante came to Marise's mind . . . "la mia menta fu percossa da un fulgore . . ."
The savage old flame, centuries and ages older than she, flared for an instant high and smoky in Marise's heart. "There is a man who knows how to fight for his wife and keep her!" she thought fiercely. July 21. Night.
From behind it she murmured humbly, between swallowing hard, that she had made some tea and there was bread and butter ready, and should she boil an egg? A good and healing pity came into Marise's heart. Poor old Agnes, it was the end of the world for her, of course. And how touching, how tragic, how unjust, the fate of dependents, to turn from one source of commands to another.
He looked down at his brown, bramble-scratched legs. Marise's imagination gave an unbridled leap of fear. She had always felt something strange and abnormal about Ralph. A lump came to her throat. How terribly, helplessly, you cared about what came to your children! When she lifted her head, Paul had come nearer her and was looking down at her, with troubled eyes.
As Eugenia only looked at her, quietly, she ventured further, "You might really be happier, you know. There is a great deal of happiness in the right marriage." She had never said so much to Eugenia. Eugenia let Marise's hand drop and with it, evidently, whatever intention she might have had of saying something difficult to express.
"I should have to know a lot more about it, before I could be sure what to think." An old impatience, at an old variance between their ways of thought, came out with an edge in Marise's tone as she said hotly, "Oh, Neale, don't take that line of yours! You know all there is to know, now! What else could you find out?
She took up a card from the table and fanned herself as she spoke, her eyes not quitting Marise's face. "It's going to be as hot as it was yesterday," she said with resignation. "Doesn't it make you long for a dusky, high-ceilinged Roman room with a cool, red-tiled floor, and somebody out in the street shouting through your closed shutters, 'Ricotta! Ricotta!" she asked lightly.
He leaned back smoking peacefully, listening to Marise's voice brimming up all around the children's as they romped through "The raggle-taggle gypsies, oh!" What a mastery of the piano Marise had, subduing it to the slender pipe of those child-voices as long as they sang, and rolling out sumptuous harmonies in the intervals of the song. Lucky kids! Lucky kids! to have childhood memories like that.
Well, maybe Marise's metaphor had something in it, for all it was so flowery and high-falutin. Maybe she would say that what he had done was exactly what she'd described, to dig it under the ground and let it fertilize and enrich his life. Oh Lord! how a figure of speech always wound you up in knots if you tried to use it to say anything definite!
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