"My," she said, "they're elegant! I'm sick and tired of war bread."
She was a pinkish young woman with regular features and abundant
coppery hair. Marriage had brought her into the Turnbull family from
the chorus of a famous New York roof beauty show. August had been at
first displeased, then a certain complacency had possessed him--Morice,
who was practically thirty years old, had no source of income other
than that volunteered by his father, and it pleased the latter to keep
them depending uncertainly on what he was willing to do. It insured
just the attitude from Rosalie he most enjoyed, approved, in a youthful
and not unhandsome woman. He liked her soft scented weight hanging on
his arm and the perfumed kiss with which she greeted him in the
morning.
Nevertheless, at times there was a gleam in her eyes and an expression
at odds with the perfection of her submission; on several occasions
Morice had approached him armed with a determination that he, August,
knew had been injected from without, undoubtedly by Rosalie. Whatever
it had been he quickly disposed of it, but there was a possibility that
she might some day undertake a rebellion; and there was added zest in
the thought of how he would totally subdue her.
"It's a wonder something isn't said to you," she continued. "They're
awfully strict about wheat now."
"That," August Turnbull instructed her heavily, "is a subject we
needn't pursue."
The truth was that he would permit no interference with what so closely
touched his comfort.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191