As he poked her through the transom Angie was saying to herself, “Once I get him in my arms, nothing shall ever part us except marriage!” With her personality and her biceps she felt sure that she could hold him and his cigar. Poor Angela! She was as optimistic as a centipede about to attempt to cross a freshly varnished floor.
And yet, once alone with him—for when they went in, his cigar went out—she found, somehow, she just couldn’t do it. It was not her will that relented, she had made no will. It was nothing so petty as pity, nor was it the mole on the bow of his nose. No, it was only the long overdue fact that she was handcuffed to the wall, and, try as she might, with all her might, she could not pull it down. She could not even bend it. It was lucky for her that she was used to being a wallflower.
I wish I didn’t have to describe the scene that followed. But your vulgar curiosity must be satisfied. Yet how shall I bring it home to you, if you insist upon having a ghastly thing like that in your own home? I can only say that, when that brute in human form approached her as if to kiss
