Excerpt from Yellow Men Sleep
There was a quiet urge in her veins that took her to John Levington. It was a gray-feathered night in spring, and she refused to turn back. John held her hands in his, and could not accept as real the great beauty of the world. He had been writing verses as usual when she came to his door, and the gentle lines were as always of her, his Mary, his unattainable. Now the flame that he loved shone forth in her. She threaded her destiny with his. In the dim, dusty hallway outside his door he found her arms about his neck, and that springtide evening flowered in their kiss.
Mary would not go back. Her family, the proper Martins, had estranged her when they refused to receive the man of her choice. The fact that his verse had once appeared in print served only to whet their disapproval. He could not make three hundred a year that way.
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