She was caught in his arms, terribly enfolding her—around and around and around he wrapped those long, long strong arms—Phew! One gets so excited writing it.
She was incredibly swooning through incredible spaces, in incredible seas, through incredible blackness, in incredible tweedy smells——
Then they went in to dinner.
CHAPTER VIII
She loved him so! Perfect he was. Simply perfect. Perfectly simple. In every way. A paragon.
He never even swore. Hanging a picture, he caught his thumb a proper crack with a hammer, that is to say, he hit it. “Mice and mumps!” cried Harry. She loved him so.
Oh, rare saying! It epitomized Harry to her—his only swear word. So perfect he was! “Mice and mumps!” Never anything stronger. Never “Rats and rickets!” Never “Snakes and scarlet-fever.” Never “Terrapins and tuberculosis!” No. Only “Mice and mumps.” She loved him so! Oh, rapturous affinity!
CHAPTER IX
So they were married. There were children. She, not cognizant of nature’s dower to her sex, was surprised. No one had ever told her. Simcox had never mentioned it. Sturgiss said nothing about it. How was she to know? One cannot know everything, and she was so busy at the office.
Three children, happy Huggo, happy Doda, happy Benji—happy Rosalie—everybody happy, except Harry. He gloomed sometimes, glowered sometimes. Brooded now. Spoke——