Something so jaded in
her that she thought it long dead, was stirring sappily, as if with
springtime.
Maybe it was a resurgence of sense of power after months of terror that
the years had done for her.
At any rate, it was something strangely and deeply sweet.
"Nicky-boy," she said, sitting on the couch with her back against the
wall, her legs out horizontally and clapping her rubbed gilt slippers
together--"Nicky-boy must go home ten o'clock to-night. Josie-girl
tired."
Her mouth, like a red paper rose that had been crushed there, was always
bunched to baby talk.
"Come here," he said, and jerked her so that the breath jumped.
"Won't," she said, and came.
His male prowess was enormous to him. He could bend her back almost
double with a kiss, and did. His first kisses that he spent wildly. He
could have carried her off like Persephone's bull, and wanted to, so
swift his mood. His flare for life and for her leaped out like a flame,
and something precious that had hardly survived sixteen seemed to stir
in the early grave of her heart.
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