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Updated: May 24, 2025
There was coffee fragrance on the air of the large white kitchen, his mother hunched to the attitude of wielding a can opener, and at the snowy oilclothed table, Ada, slicing creamy slabs off the end of a cube of Swiss cheese. "Sleepyhead," she greeted, holding up a sliver for him to nibble. And his mother: "That was a good rest for you, son? You feel better?"
They adore each other, however. Isn't the house quaint? Have you seen the garden?" She shook her head. "No, show it to me." Leaving the room they crossed to the oilclothed passage and went into the dining-room, a small apartment enlivened by an oleograph of Leo XIII., and some gay chromos. The windows opened to the ground, and opening one the young people went out into the moonlight.
The gentleman went to his room; but in no enviable frame of mind. So wretched was his plight that he was not above valuing the covert sympathy of the small bell-boy who preceded him up the oilclothed stairs. He was a very round boy: round legs, round cheeks, round head and eyes so round that they must have been special eyes made on purpose. There was also a haunting resemblance to some other boy!
She followed him as if she were in a dream, watching him open the door with a latchkey, after a frantic search for that object in all his pockets, tiptoeing after him as, a finger to his lips, a delighted, boyish smile crinkling his eyelids, he led her down the narrow, oilclothed passage. "Why are they in the kitchen?" she asked, as excited as he. "It is nearly eight; she is busy with supper."
Down her body there was a spilth of seeds and pulp. She cried hoarsely aloud. "Once more oh, answer me! Tell me my name!" Ed's steps were heard on the oilclothed portion of the staircase. "My name oh, my name!" she cried in an agony of suspense.... "Oh, they will not wait for me! They have lighted the torches they run up and down the shore with torches oh, cannot you see me?..."
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