Then she got her finger in the joint and
pinched it, emitting a most material squeal as she did so. Happening
to glance through the transom, she saw Rodney standing below in the
hall, grinning at her with inharmonious, unspiritual, unsentimental
glee, and she tugged viciously at the transom, banging herself off the
box, upsetting the chair, and squirting oil all over me as she fell.
"Rodney rushed to the rescue, but Emily was already scrambling into
sitting posture, scared, bruised and furious. She had torn her dress,
twisted her ankle, bumped her head and scratched her face. And Rodney
had seen it.
"Ignoring me, Rodney sat down on the box and looked her over with cold
professional eyes.
"'My little seeker after truth,' he said, 'you are a mystic combination
of spirit and mind. You are in tune with the infinite spheres. You
are a breath in a universal breeze. Therefore you feel no
inconvenience. Get up, my child, and waltz an Oriental hesitation down
the hall and convince yourself everlastingly that you are in truth only
a mysterious unit in a universe of harmonic chords.'
"Emily dropped her head on the oil can, lifted up her voice and wept.
And Rodney, with an exclamation that a minister's daughter can not
repeat, took the unhappy mystic into his arms.
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