The left foot hung limp over the edge of the sofa; the jutting
angle of the right knee divided sharply the drapery of her petticoat
into two systems, and her right shoe with its steel buckle pressed
against the yielding back of the Chesterfield. The right arm lay
lissom like a snake across her breast. All her muscles were lax,
and every full curve of her body tended downward in response to the
negligent pose. Her eyes were shut, her face flushed; and her chest
heaved with the slow regularity of her deep, unconscious breathing.
Louis as he gazed was enchanted. This was not Miss Fleckring, the
companion and household help of Mrs. Maldon, but a nymph, a fay, the
universal symbol of his highest desire.... He would have been happy to
kiss the glinting steel buckle, so feminine, so provocative, so coy.
The tight rounded line of the waist, every bend of the fingers, the
fall of the eye-lashes--all were exquisite and precious to him after
the harsh, unsatisfying, desolating masculinity of Horrocleave's.
This was the divine reward of Horrocleave's, the sole reason of
Horrocleave's. Horrocleave's only existed in order that this might
exist and be maintained amid cushions and the softness of calm and
sequestered interiors, waiting for ever in acquiescence for the
arrival of manful doers from Horrocleave's.
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