high cliff overlooking an ash barrel. There Angie was pushed through the front door, and behind her he slyly turned the key in the lock. She was, in fact, locked in, if you get what I mean. They were at last alone. . . .
Now many authors would make a good deal out of a compromising situation like that. But you scarcely need to know more; you also have a morbid imagination. Yes, as I have promised the editor to tell the whole truth, I shall not flinch from the facts. I shall tell you all—all. And I shall not even use asterisks.
******
He led her to the kitchen, and he led her to the stove. There, pointing to a huge bucket of paste, “Fry this!” he commanded. “’Tis too sour to stick to the walls, and, woman, I must be fed!”
Often, in future years, Angie was to remember those miserably happy meals, and how, afterwards, a mutual indigestion drew them together. When at last the bucket was empty they munched scraps of wall paper, and their faces began to break out in spots of mauve and yellow, not to speak of elsewhere. It was a great satisfaction, however,
