Maggie had watched as though hypnotized by the street itself,
marking the long squares of light, the pools of shadow, the lamp-
posts, the public-house at the corner, the little grocer's shop with
cases of oranges piled outside the door, the windows on the second
floor of the dressmaker's, through which you could see a dummy-
figure and a young woman with a pale face and shiny black hair, who
came and glanced out once and again, as though to reassure herself
that the gay world was still there.
The people, the horses and carts, the cabs went on their way.
Often it seemed that this figure must be Martin's--now this--now
this . . . And on every occasion Maggie's heart rose in her breast,
hammered at her eyes, then sank again. Over and over she told to
herself every incident of yesterday's meeting. Always it ended in
that same wonderful climax when she was caught to his breast and
felt his hand at her neck and then his mouth upon hers. She could
still feel against her skin the rough warm stuff of his coat and the
soft roughness of his cheek and the stiff roughness of his hair. She
could still feel how his mouth had just touched hers and then
suddenly gripped it as though it would never let it go; then she had
been absorbed by him, into his very heart, so that still now she
felt as though with his strong arms and his hard firm body he was
around her and about her.
Pages:
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276