With
elbows, umbrella, hat-pin, tongue, and fingernails doing their duty,
Violet Seymour forced her way through the mob of onlookers to the
first row. Strong men who even had been able to secure a seat on
the 5.30 Harlem express staggered back like children as she bucked
centre. Two large lady spectators who had seen the Duke of Roxburgh
married and had often blocked traffic on Twenty-third Street fell
back into the second row with ripped shirtwaists when Violet had
finished with them. William Pry loved her at first sight.
The ambulance removed the unconscious agent of Cupid. William and
Violet remained after the crowd had dispersed. They were true
Rubberers. People who leave the scene of an accident with the
ambulance have not genuine caoutchouc in the cosmogony of their
necks. The delicate, fine flavour of the affair is to be had only
in the after-taste--in gloating over the spot, in gazing fixedly at
the houses opposite, in hovering there in a dream more exquisite
than the opium-eater's ecstasy. William Pry and Violet Seymour were
connoisseurs in casualties. They knew how to extract full enjoyment
from every incident.
Presently they looked at each other. Violet had a brown birthmark on
her neck as large as a silver half-dollar. William fixed his eyes
upon it. William Pry had inordinately bowed legs. Violet allowed her
gaze to linger unswervingly upon them. Face to face they stood thus
for moments, each staring at the other.
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