By Maria Thompson Daviess
Maria Thompson Daviess used to be a well-liked writer in the course of the overdue nineteenth century and early twentieth century. Her "Pollyanna" novels have been severely acclaimed and stay learn at the present time.
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The exaltation of danger, I’m used to it now, the fever of remorse. This society which condemns me…do you know how I am revenging myself? I am seducing each one of its members slowly, one by one…” He talked softly and exultantly, choosing the silkiest words, not disguising his dream of triumphing over all those who had dared to forbid certain acts, and certain forms of love. At the same time when he talked about Michael there came to his face the same expression women have when they have seduced a man, an expression of vain glee, a triumphant, uncontrollable celebration of her power.
When she extended her leg at the bar, the ballet master placed his hand on it as if to guide the accuracy of her pointed toe. He was a slender, erect, stylized man of forty, not handsome in face; only in attitudes and gestures. His face was undefined, his features blurred. It was as if the dance were a sculptor who had taken hold of him and had carved style, form, elegance out of all his movements, but left the face unimportant. She always felt his hand exceptionally warm whenever he placed it on her to guide, to correct, improve or change a gesture.
At his entrance her head remained slightly inclined towards the right, as it was when she was alone, slightly weighed down by pensiveness, whereas on other occasions, at the least approach of a stranger, her head would raise itself tautly in preparation for danger. And so he entered into the flowered regions, behind the forts, having easily crossed all the moats of politeness. His blond hair gave him the befitting golden tones attributed to most legendary figures. Djuna never knew whether this light of sun he emitted came out of his own being or was thrown upon him by her dream of him, as later she had observed the withdrawal of this light from those she had ceased to love.
The Tinder-Box by Maria Thompson Daviess