His high head came down like a swan's, and his lips
pressed hers.
Whatever her soul was, her flesh was all girlhood in one flower of
lithe stem, leaf, petal, sepal, and perfume. There was nothing of
the opiate poppy, the ominous orchid, or even that velvet voluptuary,
the rose. She was like a great pink, sweet, shy, fragrant, common
wild honeysuckle blossom.
Jim Dyckman was so whelmed by the youth and flavor of her that
his rapture exploded in an unsmothered gasp:
"Golly! but you're great!"
Kedzie was heartbroken. Gilfoyle had done better than that. She had
been kissed by several million dollars, and she was not satisfied!
But Dyckman was. He felt that Kedzie had solved the problem of
Charity Coe. She had cleared his soul of that hopeless obsession--he
thought--just then.
CHAPTER XVIII
When a young man suddenly goes mad in a cab, grapples the young
woman who has intrusted herself to his protection, pins her arms
to her sides, squeezes her torso till her bones crunch and she has
no breath to squawk with, then kisses her deaf and dumb and blind,
it is still a nice question which of the two is the helpless one
and which has overpowered the other.
Appearances are never more deceitful than in such attacks, and
while eye-witnesses are infrequent, they are also untrustworthy.
They cannot even tell which of the two is victim of the outrage.
The motionless gazelle in the folds of the constrictor may be in
full control of the situation.
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