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She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repay her
entirely.
‘You really do blossom out sometimes,’ he said. ‘You
ought to write poetry.’
She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrust-
fully.
‘I don’t trust myself,’ she said.
‘You should try!’
Again she shook her head.
‘Shall we read, or is it too late?’ he asked.
‘It is late—but we can read just a little,’ she pleaded.
She was really getting now the food for her life during
the next week. He made her copy Baudelaire’s ‘Le Balcon”.
Then he read it for her. His voice was soft and caressing, but
growing almost brutal. He had a way of lifting his lips and
showing his teeth, passionately and bitterly, when he was
much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he
were trampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat
with her head bowed. She could not understand why he got
into such a tumult and fury. It made her wretched. She did
not like Baudelaire, on the whole—nor Verlaine.
‘Behold her singing in the field
Yon solitary highland lass.’
That nourished her heart. So did ‘Fair Ines”. And—
‘It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure,
And breathing holy quiet like a nun.’
These were like herself. And there was he, saying in his
throat bitterly:
‘Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses.’
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