10-Story Book, July 1931 — page 57: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

10-STORY BEGINS ITS 30TH SUCCESSFUL YEAR! 20 silence and she pillowed her face, once more soft and girlishly beautiful, contentedly upon one slender arm. Delirium! She had talked irrationally be- fore during the course of her fever, but then her babblings had been of a lake with lilies and a silver castle; or even, childishly, of such things as pop-corn balls and toffy. This terrible outburst was beyond belief. Victor felt an impulse of physical nausea. The import of the words she had just spoken could hardly be questioned—some clan- destine intrigue of the most offensive and soiling-sort. But how did those words come to her lips? He could still scarcely believe that she herself had spoken them. Rather some demon within her, conjured up by the fever. He had averted his eyes from her face with a movement of revulsion. Now, with a painful effort he forced them to return, examining her slim shoulder and the delicate profile whose effect of purity was enhanced by her pallor. Lovely—lovely Miranda! Miranda the fallen! Miranda the harlot! Such combinations of ideas were utterly im- possible. He wondered if a person in a de- lirium ever talked of things which had not actually occurred. Surely this hideous thing must have been only a dream which floated for a moment, alien and unowned, through the pure air of her mind. Yet it must have heen present somewhere in her imagination, in her desire, floating up from some secret sub-stratum of her nature underlying all the beautiful purity of her known self. This alternative was not reassuring. All at once he imagined her dead. Lying in white purity, with lilies around her, in- accessible to any further ill. And he imag- ined himself forgiving her then—little Mi- randa, who had sinned because she had not known and had been only too accessible to life. He saw himself beside her grave, where violets grew, head bowed in noble grief. But she was not going to die, of course. She was going to live and get well and look at him with eyes in which this enigma faced him always. In a flash he saw the future as it would be for him. She would be soft and sweet, and in the seduction of her pres- ence he would forget the nightmare for whole moments and her white hand would rest on his head, and then, when she had left him, the doubts would come surging back. He imagined the nights when he would lie sleepless, weighing evidence which had been weighed a thousand times before. He imagined the days in which he would look questioningly into other people’s eyes for the glint of a suspicion when they rested on Miranda. He knew the agony he would experience when he saw a man’s hand reach- ing out to touch her white hand. Suddenly Miranda stirred and began to whisper words which her father could not catch. Then she flung out her arms with a gesture which bared her breast and cried, “Lover! Lover!” Something in Victor moved with swift desperation. He took the bottle of sleeping medicine and poured out her dose and pressed it between her lips. She fought against it, moving her head from side to side on the pillow. “Not drink—had enough —want, want loving!’ Then he picked up the bottle and pressed it against her lips, pouring the contents between them—more and more and more—until at last the lovely, defiled lips were still. Those Things Happen— Be Careful Next Time, John Trade love hammock for twin baby carriage. John C. Gambell, Sites, Calif. —Taken from a Trade magazine. ( Adv.) COMICOOOKS.ECO mn