He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. In the floor were set four ring-bolts, about nine feet apart. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. That there Frenchie didn’t look any too friendly to me. For a stunned moment, Emile did not speak.
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