The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. He beamed as she whispered to 22 him that she had seen a table so fine or tasted such wonders. She would never return to her father; that resolution was final. She moaned as he buried himself completely to the hilt. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. She made no answer, and for a time he debated some problems with himself. “If I were to marry now,” she said, “it would be with a sense of humiliation. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp.
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