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Daviess, Maria Thompson, 1872-1924

"The Tinder-Box"

Hardin at her earliest
opportunity, though I think the only result will be instruction and
uplift for Nell, as a more illumined thing I never had said to me on the
subject of the relation of men and women than the one he uttered to me
last night, as he said good-by to me out on the porch in that glorious
moonlight that seems brighter here in Glendale than I have ever seen it
out in the world anywhere else."
"What did he say?" I asked perfectly naturally, though a double-bladed
pain was twisted around in my solar plexus as the vision of Jane's last
night interview in the moonlight with the Crag, and Nell's
soon-to-be-one, hit me broadside at the same time. I haven't had one by
myself with him for a week.
"Why, of course, women are the breath that men draw into their lungs of
life to supply eternal combustion," was what he said when I asked him
point-blank what he thought of the League. "Only let us breathe slowly
as we ascend to still greater elevations with their consequent rarefied
air," he added, with the most heavenly thoughtfulness in his fine face.
"Did it ever occur to you, Evelina, that your Cousin James is really a
radiantly beautiful man? How could you be so mistaken, as to both him
and his personal appearance, as to apply such a name as Crag to him?"
Glendale is going to Jane's head!
"Don't you think he looks scraggy in that long-tailed coat, shocks of
taggy hair and a collar big enough to fit Old Harpeth?" I asked
deceitfully.


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