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MARQUISE
Mansion On The Hill, Book 2
CHASHIREE M.
M.K. MOORE
Breeding Nation Publishing
Copyright © 2020 by ChaShiree M. & M.K. Moore
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
Cover by Tracie @ Dark Water Covers
Created with Vellum
 Blurb

Marquise
My life has been planned out since the day I was adopted. I was
going to make my new parents proud and take care of my brothers.
But most of all, I was going to turn out nothing like the man who
made me. I stayed away from relationships and kept what was
inside of me, locked away. Until the day my Goddess needed me.
The minute I touched her, she unlocked something inside of me. I
tried so hard to contain it. The problem is...I don't know if I will be
able to put it back. Little by little, parts of me unleashed. Then with
one word, it exploded.
I just hope she's ready!!!

Chrissy
My life went from good, to ok to horrible in the blink of an eye. I
moved from bench to bench, not knowing where my next meal was
going to come from. It was better than the alternative. Then one
day, my savior came and everything changed. I knew he was
different. Suffering. Holding on to something that made him who he
is. Hell, I was too. Until the day, the gates opened and we both
found our place. Now I just need to convince him I can handle all of
it.
The truth is...We need each other and I will stop at nothing to
make him see it.

This is book 2 in the Mansion On The Hill Series. Marquise is a bit

darker, more complex then Baron, but filled with passion, emotion,
love and dirty times. MK and I want you to take this journey with us
as two lost and tortured souls find their way to one another.
 C ON T E N T S

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue

Also by ChaShiree M. & M.K. Moore

Acknowledgments
About ChaShiree M.
Acknowledgments
About M.K.
 Dedicated to those that overcome the darkness to find the light.
There is love out there for you. Be brave. Seek it. Hold on to it. You
deserve it.
 Prologue

M arquise
“Please, Dad. Don’t hurt Mommy!”
“Shut up boy. Or you’re next.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I want you to go to your room, baby boy.
Go.”
Sitting up abruptly to scan the room, my chest feels as if it’s
heaving from the nightmares that are trying to take control of me. I
still hear the echoes of my cries begging my father, who at the time
I didn’t know much about, not to choke her. The little voice laced
with fear of a six-year-old boy. A boy, who is watching his father,
who is angry and filled with rage, forcing his mother to kneel before
him.
“Fuck!” I shout, wiping the sweat from my face. I thought I was
over those damn flashbacks. It’s been a little over a year since I was
woken up by one of those memories.
It started again a few weeks ago when I was walking out of the
office building and heading home to workout, before going inside the
club for a session. When I was walking to the car, I remembered the
construction company needed to go behind the building to make
corrections to the garage for our workers. The damn security gate
keeps malfunctioning, and the architect says it’s because the ground
is uneven and needs to be releveled.
Walking to the back of the building, making sure they were
working on it is where and when I first saw her. A tiny, dirty, and
scared little creature, shivering in the corner by the garbage, trying
to stay dry and out of the rain. There is a part, deep inside of me,
that has been harboring and keeping it locked away in the shadows.
Now, it is breaking free and threatening to come to the forefront, as
if something about this girl is calling to me.
I say a girl because even from the distance I am standing, I can
make out her young features. Slowly moving closer to see if there is
anything I can do; I try to move cautiously so as not to scare her at
the same time. I made it approximately five feet before hitting a
bottle I didn’t see. She is startled, then starts to rise while beginning
to cower and whimper.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I only want to help.” I say to her, as I
am reaching my hand out to allow her to touch it. She backs away
even more and begins to fall when I hear a hiccup come from her
body. She tries to scatter away from me.
“What’s your name? I’m…”
“Hey. Hey you!” I turn towards the voice, as the security guard
starts yelling at her. Moving to tell him to stop, I am too late to get it
out before she slides around me and takes off at a run. Moving to go
after her, I only make it to the corner before she is gone, and my
driver stops me from continuing.
“Sir? Is everything alright?”
“Where did she go? The young girl who just ran around this
corner.”
“Sir?” He looks at me with confusion on his face. As if I am losing
my mind. Looking directly at him and then back across the street, I
am not sure if he isn’t right. Maybe I am losing it.
My nightmares started again after that night. It must have been
seeing her alone, fragile, and very weak that brought back
everything I’ve tried to forget. For the next several weeks I’ve done
nothing but look for her. I even went so far as to hire a private
investigator, and I also started checking every homeless shelter in
town. It has been no luck finding her. Opening the balcony doors to
the outside of my room, I walk out begging the voices in my head to
stop. Even awake, I can see the air leaving my mom’s lungs as my
father is yelling and accusing her of loving his friend’s cock more
than his. I had no clue what he meant with his yelling considering
my age, but I would later learn several things about my parents that
would send me into a tailspin.
There is something about this girl that is awakening everything in
me. I only hope that when I find her, she can handle everything that
I am.
Chapter One
MARQUISE
Day One

“F uck, finally,” I whisper as I am getting into the car, still

holding her in my arms.
Though I drove here in my car with my brother, I’m sure he can
call a driver. I think as I am putting her in the passenger seat,
fastening the belt, and then walking around to my side of the car to
get in. Right now, I am tense and hoping above anything else that
she doesn’t hop out and run away from me again. Hell, holding her
in my arms with hers wrapped around me, feels more than right.
Starting my vehicle, I look over at her and note how she is shivering.
She is folded against the door, trying to stay as far away from me as
she can get.
“I am not going to hurt you… shit! I still don’t know your name.
Will you tell me what it is?” I do not expect her to tell me or to even
speak to me at all, but it never hurts to ask.
I glance back over at her and get a shock when I see she is
staring at me. Her eyes are mesmerizing and piercing. It’s like they
can see straight through me. “You okay, Goddess?” I’m not sure
where the nickname comes from, but it seems to fit, especially since
I feel as if I’ve just found something that is worth more than
anything I can or have acquired. It seems to be a shock to her too.
Sliding her eyebrows upwards, she seems to relax a little. But she
still hasn’t answered me on what her name is.
Pulling the car into the garage of my townhouse, I exit the driver
side and go around to help her out. She hesitates slightly at first,
before taking my hand and getting out of the car. “I promise, I am
not going to hurt you. I know you have no reason to trust me, but
please… you won’t be sorry if you do.” I say as I hold my hand out.
She looks at me with her eyes burning straight into me. Hell, I
find myself fidgeting under her scrutiny. In my entire life I have
never felt as if someone is able to see inside of my soul. In this case,
it is okay, because this little Goddess is mine and she could tear me
to shreds with one word. When she finally puts her hand in mine, a
feeling I can’t even put into words overtakes me. Definitely not
something I was prepared for, but certainly not something I plan to
let go of.
We walk together through the door. For the first time since I
bought the place a couple of years ago, I wonder what someone’s
thoughts are about it. Dropping my keys in the dish by the door, I
look around the room and take it all in. When I was looking for a
place of my own, after my brothers and I decided to part ways from
our four-bedroom bachelor pad, I had to figure out what I wanted.
It was not only a new place where I would live, but what I wanted
out of life too. Although I still wasn’t sure what it was. But I figured,
better to be prepared for anything. Turns out, I was right.
I looked for a realtor who would take all of my needs and wants
and combine them with my mother's taste. All without turning it into
a feminine house. And voila, this is what we were able to find. It is a
five-bedroom house that overlooks the lake. The downstairs has all
country hardwood floors. A brand-new chrome kitchen with a chef’s
stove and countertop. The double door fridge has a bottom freezer
and state of the art appliances stationed throughout the room.
The living room is decorated in all blues and whites. I wanted
something calming since I spend my days stressed and full of
tension dealing with business. There is a projection screen tv that is
vaulted from the ceiling and a four-piece sectional sofa. Off to the
side is the dining room and one and a half bathrooms on the main
level. Below the main level is a fully finished and furnished
basement. The upstairs has all five bedrooms in various colors and
each with their own bathroom. I recently admitted that I bought it
with a family in mind. Even though, until I laid eyes on her, I wasn’t
sure I really wanted one.
I glance over to try and see if I can read her thoughts through
her facial expressions. Suddenly, I note that she is bent at the
knees. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” she nods.
“Right this way.” I lead the way down the hall to the restroom
and show her in.
“Can I get you anything?” She shakes her head no. “Okay. When
you are done, I will be right in the kitchen. Okay?” Another nod. Her
body is extremely frail and weak. I would love nothing better than to
pull her into my arms and tell her she never has to worry about
anything again. Instead, I watch as she closes the door and my
mind immediately goes to another memory of my birth mom.

A rriving home from school in the first grade , I was surprised at not
seeing my mom waiting for me at the bus stop. I walked into the
house calling her name and looking through all the rooms. It wasn’t
until I made it up the stairs, that I realized something wasn’t right.
Getting close to the bedroom, I notice a man putting on his clothes.
He looked startled to see me and immediately started trying to
gather his things. On the verge of running to call the 911, because I
was worried he had somehow hurt my mother. Suddenly I hear my
father yell at her, his voice coming from the bathroom and asking
her if she liked it. I knocked.
“Mom? Dad?” My confused little dude voice, asking for them to
acknowledge I was home and stop whatever was happening. I could
hear my mother begging him, telling him to let her come out and
take care of me.
“Please, sir. Junior is home. I don’t want him to be scared.” It
never occurred to me that I only heard my mom call my dad by his
name when family was around.
“He is fine. You are going to turn him into a punk if you keep
babying him. I am your concern. Me and the men you let touch my
possession.” He growls that last part.
“Sir, I only did what you told me too. I live to please you. Sir.”

“S hit !” S haking my head , I head out to the backyard needing air to

take the thoughts away. Again. I am not sure how long I’m out here,
but when I turn around, she is standing behind me. She is looking
every bit as scared as my mom always did. The feelings her fear
causes to arise in me are not something I am equipped to deal with
right now.
“Can you tell me your name?” I ask, walking towards her. The
compulsion to be near her is overtaking my promise to myself not to
overwhelm her. She backs away, obviously not wanting me to touch
her. With nowhere else to go, she hits the wall. My hand reaches out
to touch her dirty, beautiful face, before moving her hair aside.
“I know you don't have a reason to trust me ...yet. But you will,
Goddess. You will. Until then, I will work every day to help you get
used to me. To this, that is between us. Like it or not, you have met
your future. Let’s go and get you cleaned up.” Not bothering to wait
for a response, I scoop her up into my arms and walk towards the
stairs. All the while I am telling myself to ‘Give her time, Marquise.
She's not ready.’ But fuck if I can stop my cock from being hard as
fucking stone. Hell, for that matter my heart isn’t taking a break
either. I might have just met the only person to break through my
guard with no effort.
God help her if she betrays me.
Chapter Two
 CHRISSY

L ess than six months ago, my entire life crashed on top of me,
like a ton of bricks. I was seventeen when my life changed
forever. My father was a Chicago police officer, who had been on the
force for nearly twenty years. He made it to the rank of sergeant.
On one particular summer night, my father and his partner
answered a call that turned deadly. His partner died that night and
he was forced to kill the assailant. The assailant turned out to be a
twelve-year-old girl with severe issues. There were a lot of things
that my father couldn’t get over regarding what he had to do. A
piece of him died inside each time he did his job.
One day he decided to do the unthinkable, by leaving me all
alone in the world. I needed more time, more hugs, and more fights
with them. It was all the things that I took for granted with my
parents, and I wanted more of all of it. Nothing will ever change the
fact that my father loved my mother so fucking much, that he killed
her and then himself.
According to the note he left behind, he couldn’t live with himself
anymore or without Mike, his partner and best friend, and wanted
my mom to go with him. At the time, I wished he’d killed me too.
I’ve had a hard time rationalizing and coming to terms with why he
didn’t, but nothing good has come from trying to justify why he
didn’t.
The apartment my parents rented was not amazing, but it was
home until the day after the funeral when the landlord kicked me
out. It was in one of those rent-controlled buildings, and he wanted
to rent it for much more than my parents paid. The man was a huge
dick about it, and I was out on my ass before I could blink.
I had to sell pretty much everything we owned. My dad spiraled
downward the last four months of his life, and I had no idea. He
gambled away his pension and 401k, leaving me with barely enough
for the funeral expenses because their life insurance policy didn’t
cover anything, because he stopped paying the premium. Then, like
a friggin’ genius, I ducked social services. I had to. There was no
way I was going into foster care for six months. I didn’t have any
friends from high school, and even though I was on the streets I still
managed to graduate on time. No girls liked me, and the guys only
wanted what I was steadfastly saving for my future husband, so
they quickly lost interest.
For the first six months, I would move from shelter to shelter,
until I couldn’t stay there anymore. Tonight, which is actually my
first real night on the streets was shaping up to be hell. It’s cold as
fuck and I had sold my coat for food long time ago. I thought being
on one side of the dumpster would block the wind. It was doing a
good job, until the girl from the restaurant came upon me. In
another blink of an eye, a giant of a man walked over, picked me up
like I weighed nothing, and carried me to his car.
In his arms, the warmth radiating from his body is overwhelming
and much needed. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched
me. I welcome his touch. In his arms, I can take in his scent. He
smells of pine and something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Unfortunately, I must smell awful to him as I am standing in front of
the mirror in the bathroom. I honestly can’t remember the last time
I took a ‘whole’, hot shower. Trying to clean and straighten myself up
in the tiny half bathroom is not working. The sink is too small and
modernized to do any more than wash my hands.
Reminiscing about the past will get me nowhere fast. Reluctantly,
I walk out of the room and go to the kitchen where I try to stay
away from him. He’s ridiculously good looking and I mean panty-
melting hot if I had any on that is. His dark skin against my pale and
dingy skin is breathtaking. When he talks to me in that deep
masculine voice, I try to clench my thighs together. It doesn’t help.
Instead, I stand there and am unable to say anything back to him. I
am afraid I’ll be tongue-tied and look stupider than I do right now in
someone else’s too big knock-off tracksuit. I thought it would be
warm, but fuck was I wrong.
I vow to remain silent until I know what he wants. Really, what
the hell does someone like him, who lives in a place like this want
with a homeless person anyway? I am imagining scenarios like Saw
and a great many porn movies I saw back when I had the internet.
It cannot be anything good. Besides, I don’t have the right luck for
that. He could be a murderer, and frankly I am not sure I wouldn’t
welcome it if I were being honest. I need help. I know that I do, but
I don’t know how to get it. My life, such as it is, is in shambles. The
very last thing I should be thinking about is this god-like man in a
now wrinkled suit doing amazing things to my body.
“Can you tell me your name?” he asks with such tenderness in
his voice. I almost start crying from the gentleness coming from him.
I start to back away from him. Not because I don’t want him to
touch me, but because I am afraid that once he does, I’ll never want
him to stop. He crowds into my space until my back hits the wall.
While I am surprisingly not afraid that he’ll hurt me, I am afraid of
him. Afraid of what he means to me. He reaches out and touches my
dirty tear-stained face, gently with his large hand.
“I know you don't have a reason to trust me ...yet. But you will,
my gift. You will. Until then, I will work every day to get you used to
me. To this between us. Like it or not, you have met your future.
Now, let’s go and get you cleaned up,” he says, scooping me up in
his strong arms again. I could get used to this and that isn’t good. I
snuggle into his chest and damn if I don’t purr like a kitten before I
can stop myself.
This isn’t good at all.
Despite all the incomprehensible feelings flowing through my
body in regard to this man, whose name I don’t know, this could all
be over in an instant or I could wake up and find out this was all a
dream. Either way, I have to be prepared for all possible outcomes.
Getting cozy here won’t solve anything in the long run.
Chapter Three
 MARQUISE

I cannot keep my eyes off of her as I run the bathwater and make
sure to put soothing aloe in the water. Once it is ready and I’ve
made sure it isn’t too hot, I walk towards her trying to take it slow.
The need to put my hands on her is a driving force I’ve never
experienced before. Needing to feel her heart beating as proof she is
alive and within my grasp.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” My hands make their way to the
bottom of her shirt and I begin to lift it, not sure if she is going to
raise her arms or not. Lowering my eyes and looking deeply into
hers, I pray she can read my intentions. Well, my current intentions
anyway. When she bites her lip and raises her arms, I have to place
my tongue at the front of my mouth to keep from placing my mouth
on hers. “That’s a good girl,” I tell her as I pull her pants down and
help her step out of them.
Fuck me! I should have relieved myself first. She is more than a
fucking Goddess. I should be calling her Queen, Vixen, Jezebel,
utterly intoxicating. I am unable to stop staring at the hips of the
woman who is meant to bear my children. Continuing to look at her
body, I notice she has the ass of a siren, and it’s begging for my
cock to spread and pop that ass cherry. My hands draw her head
backward, arching her back, and making her whine for me to go
deeper. Her tits are more than a handful, but not so big they would
suffocate my kid as they eat. Hell, my mouth is watering thinking
about putting them in my own mouth right now.
 Not thinking, I glance down between her legs and almost fall into
the tub. Her pussy lips are bare, but I can see a thin layer of hair.
However, it's the shiny glisten on her thighs that is forcing me to
have to chant in my mind over and over that it is too soon. “Get in
the tub.” The gruff command leaves my mouth. I have to walk out of
the bathroom before I do something we both regret.
I lean against the wall outside of the bathroom, breathing in and
out over and over willing my cock to go down so I can go back
inside. When I feel like I am partially in control I head back in and
come to a complete stop. She is lying back, eyes closed, and has a
look of serenity on her face. She is so fucking beautiful. At this very
moment, I swear to put that look on her face every single day.
“Want me to wash your hair?” Not moving from the door to give
her a chance to let me know if she is comfortable with me touching
her. She simply looks at me and nods. I take one more deep breath
before walking over to the tub. “Are you going to tell me your
name?” I ask her as I take a soft bath puff to start washing her
chest and back. Continuing to run it over her arms and legs, while
trying my damndest not to move under the water and go where I
know I shouldn't.
“My name is Marquise and we have met before. Do you
remember?” My hands are hovering against her thigh, still not
trusting myself. She doesn't say a word. Instead, she opens her legs,
giving me permission to move and remove the conflict within.
Slowly, I move the puff towards the space that is going to be my
heaven. I move it up and down, noting how her chest moves faster.
I see her hips jump and I know she is feeling it too. “Not yet
Goddess. Not yet. I promise it won’t be long now. But you have to
talk to me first, baby.”
After that, I finish washing her body and hair. Helping her out,
dried off, and into one of my shirts. Once I get her into the kitchen, I
make her some eggs and toast, not sure what she likes. As
expected, she devours the plate of food and the orange juice I give
her, causing my heart to react, thinking about how long she must
have been without food. “Come on baby. Time to get some sleep.”
 The walk up the stairs feels like I am walking to my doom.
Knowing that we are going to be in a bedroom lying together with
our bodies touching and my cock calling to her pussy, daring it to
open up and let me touch. This is going to be pure torture. I shortly
contemplate putting her in one of the other bedrooms to start off,
but quickly decide against it. She might as well get used to it. Hell,
for that matter, I should too.
“Get in the bed, Goddess.” She hesitates before turning and
looking out the bedroom door. My instincts start to rise, preparing
for her to run out of the room. I know I should be more
understanding, but I need to hold her in my arms at least to know
that she is okay. “I promise, I won’t hurt you. Well, not without your
permission, baby. Get in the bed.”
Her eyes widen at my words. It’s as if I can read everything
going through her mind. The glistening that crosses her gaze once
again shows me, we are both feeling it. Once she is in the bed and
covered up, her body a bundle of comfortability, I get in behind her
and pull her into my arms. She initially tenses waiting to see if I will
take it from her. Once she realizes I won’t, she relaxes into me and
her breathing begins to settle. I use the moment to let her know I
haven't forgotten.
“You are going to have to tell me your name at some point,
Goddess.” my mouth close to her ear. Close enough to lick it if I
wanted. God, do I want to. Instead, I close my eyes and try to get
my cock to behave. I know she can feel it if her ass wiggling against
me is any indication. Just as I am about to pass out, I hear her voice
for the first time.
“Chrissy.” The name my Goddess whispers before falling asleep.
Chrissy. Welcome to your forever, Chrissy.

T oday is the first morning I have ever been up and not already at
work. I woke a little over twenty minutes ago and spent the first five
watching her as she sleeps. She looks peaceful and very innocent. I
cannot help but shake my head at how her innocence won’t be an
issue for long. I eventually move to get up when she sighs and
moves in closer to me. This keeps me in bed another few minutes,
loving the feel of her up against me. More than that, I love how she
shows me she likes it.
After finally getting out of the bed, I am now in the kitchen
making breakfast. I figure strawberry pancakes, sausage, eggs,
orange juice, and her choice of yogurt should be enough. Turning to
place her plate on the table, I see her standing there. “Good
morning, Chrissy.”
“Morning,” she says, barely loud enough to be considered talking.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.” Excellent. She is talking to me. One-word sentences but
talking.
“That’s good. I’ll tell you that I made enough food to feed my
brothers. Please.'' I gesture towards a chair for her to sit. Putting a
little of everything on her plate, I then sit across from her. My eyes
never leave her as she puts the food in her mouth. One fork full at a
time. Once I see she likes it, I relax. “Would you tell me your last
name, Chrissy.” I have a need to know everything about her, as if
each piece is vital to my next breath.
“Brooks,” she says before sticking more food in her mouth.
“That’s my good girl.” She stops, the fork in front of her mouth
and looks at me when the phrase leaves my mouth. My first instinct
is to apologize and tell her I didn't mean it. Anything to make sure
she stays, but I resist. I am who I am and having her here, in this
space, breathing the same air as me, looking so innocent and
fuckable at my table, is the first time, I allow myself to acknowledge
it. After what feels like a lifetime her face begins to redden. Her
cheeks are blushing, and a plump rouge color has popped out on
her. My eyes track the blush down to her chest, noting the flush has
spread. Interesting.
“Where are your parents, Chrissy?” How could anyone allow this
precious jewel out in the world alone with no protection and
nowhere to go? She looks at me and shrugs her shoulders. I am
taking notes of everything she doesn't answer. Telling myself to be
sure to have Dusty look it up. “That’s okay, Goddess. You don’t have
to say anything. I will find out either way. But know one thing...it
won’t stop what is happening right here.” I motion between the two
of us.
“Promise,” she whispers. Shocked, I look at her with her face
hanging down, as her cheeks turn redder than a stop sign. Putting
my hands on the table, I bend forward making sure to be right in
front of her face. Our mouths are so close that if I move one more
inch, I would be sucking those delicious looking lips into mine.
“I fucking swear, Goddess. This...is going to be. I just need to
know you can handle it. I am not the easiest person to be with, but I
promise never to hurt you, at least not without your consent, and I
will NEVER leave you, Chrissy. I need you to trust me, though.”
“Okay,” she says nonchalantly, while still eating. Watching her
place food in her mouth, I swallow, trying to hold myself together.
Why do I suddenly feel like I am the one in trouble?
Chapter Four
 CHRISSY

I ’ve always been a shy girl, not one that is chatty in any way. I
usually don’t speak until spoken to, but for some reason all I
wanna do is talk to him. There is a need down inside of me to tell
him everything about myself. Especially before he Googles it,
because I know that it will be right there when he does. One of
Chicago’s finest goes crazy, first killing his wife and then himself. It
definitely made the news cycles.
There is something about him that makes me feel safe. Safer
than I have ever felt before. Sure, he’s let me into his home but how
long can that really last? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that he
wants something more from me than one night. I’m afraid he
doesn’t know me, and he won’t want me once he’s gotten whatever
it is that he really wants. No one is this nice without ulterior motives.
Yet, I can’t explain why I am drawn to him. He gives off a dominant
vibe that I seem to respond to with every fiber of my being.
I continue eating the delicious breakfast he prepared, like it is the
best thing I’ve ever eaten. Honestly, it is the best thing I’ve eaten in
six months. My mind continues to rehash over and over, that I
haven’t felt this connected to anyone, not anyone who wasn’t my
parents at least. I don’t have time to explore my feelings because he
is staring at me intently. If I am being honest, I would say that I am
mesmerized by this man. He’s quite a bit taller than I am with a light
brown skin contrast, very much different than my own pale skin.
 “What?” I ask, wiping my mouth with a napkin off of the counter.
“Is there something on my face?”
“No, Goddess,” he says reaching out and touching my cheek. I
lean into his touch like a puppy starved for attention.
“What is it then?”
“You are so fucking beautiful. I am having a hard time keeping
my hands to myself,” he admits.
“No one said you had to,” I blurt out, shocking myself. His eyes
widen. I’ve never been this forward before, but it feels right, so I go
for it.
“Oh Chrissy. Right now, I have to because being a gentleman is
all I know,” he says with a thick voice. I frown wondering why, but I
don’t ask any questions because I don’t really want to know the
answer.
I move out of his reach and go back to my breakfast trying not to
pig out, but I am starving. At least he doesn’t say anything as I eat.
We end up finishing the meal in silence. I sit sipping my coffee,
surprisingly not uncomfortable with the way he’s staring at me. His
dark brown eyes are boring holes into my soul, but it’s not creeping
me out or anything. Normally, I’d be self-conscious with someone
continuing to stare at me like that, but everything is different with
him. Everything.
Automatically, I begin to clear the dishes from the island before
he stops me by putting a huge hand on my arm. I look down at his
hand touching me, and I about swoon.
“What?” I ask, confused.
“You don’t have to do that, Chrissy. I have someone on staff that
handles that kind of thing.” I can’t help the frown on my face.
“I insist on doing the dishes. It’s only fair. You cooked an utterly
delicious meal, and I’ll do the dishes,” I tell him, continuing to carry
the dishes to sink. He throws his hands up in a placating motion
allowing me to continue. Once I am done, I turn to lean against the
counter and dry my hands. This was the least I could do. Maybe if I
am helpful, he’ll let me stay longer.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” he asks, shaking his head. Raising
his hand to swipe his thumb across his full lips, causes me to lick
mine slowly.
“Get what?”
“This is your future. You and me. Ask me anything, if you think it
will help you understand just what is happening between us.
“What’s happening between us?” I parrot, like an idiot.
“Okay, Goddess. This is real. The only future I can see has you
starring in it,” he says. I nod like a loon not quite understanding
what he means, but I want to. I want the future he is possibly
talking about, but it seems too good to be true. Usually, things that
seem too good to be true, are. If the last six months have taught me
anything, that’s it.
“Do you rescue girls often?” I ask. It’s the question that has been
rolling around my head more than any. I’d hate to find out that I
was just one in a long line of many girls. I’ve played the scenario
over and over in my head that he has a White-Knight Syndrome.
Suddenly, his large hand wraps around my throat. He’s not
hurting me, but it’s hard enough to make me stop in my tracks and
my pussy actually gushes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I wet
myself.
“Do you want to ask that again, Little Girl?” he asks, leaning
down speaking into my ear in a raspy voice. He sniffs my neck and
hair, like an animal scenting his mate. That is so fucking hot, I have
to squeeze my thighs together and hold in the moan that is
desperate to escape. Goosebumps are standing on every uncovered
inch of my skin. I shake my head no. “Words, baby. Words.”
“I don’t want to ask again,” I whisper. I lick my lips for
preparation of the kiss that hangs in the air, but it never comes.
“Good girl,” he says. As suddenly as he was there, he’s gone, and
I am bereft at the loss of his warmth.
Shaking my head, I drop the towel on the counter and take
several deep breaths preparing for my next encounter with the
enigma of a man, who makes me wetter than I ever have been.
I have no idea how I am going to survive Marquise Roades.
Honestly, I don't want to survive if I am being truthful. The need I
have to be decimated by him is one I have no idea what it says
about me, and I don’t care.
Chapter Five
MARQUISE
Day Two

W hat the fuck am I thinking? I castigate myself mentally as I

walk out of the room. My whole life I have worked to be the
complete opposite of my birth father, after spending years watching
my dad physically handle my mom. Berating her. Talking down to
her. Making her feel as beneath him as he thought she was. I made
a vow that when I finally fell in love, I would do the opposite. So,
why then did my hand end up around her neck? My face in line with
her neck, as I sniff the scent that is only her. Why then, did I want
to put her on her knees and rub her cheeks and walk around her
looking at her eyes, as they beg me to make her feel good? Shit.
Who am I kidding? The biggest question is, why did she seem to
want it too?
Walking out onto my balcony, I hang my head for a bit as I try to
catch my breath and clear my head. “Good morning, Lanissa,” I say,
answering my phone. Looking at the time, I can’t help but note how
late in the morning it is for me. I forgot I have two phone calls, and
I asked Lanissa to orchestrate clothes to be brought here for Chrissy
so she can try them on.
“Sir. I am checking in. Did you still need the clothes brought to
your place?” she asks, sounding a bit out of breath.
“Yes. Please have them brought as soon as possible. I have more
to do. Is Mr. Griegyl ready for our call?”
“Yes, Sir. He is ready and so is his son, Justin. Are you sure you
don't want me to come over to the house? I could make sure your…
little... project gets what she needs.” It is taking everything inside
me right now, not to lose my shit. Who the hell is she calling ‘little
project?’
“No, Lanissa. I don’t need you here. Neither does my Goddess.
You may clean out your desk and turn in your badge. Lorenzo will
escort you out of the building. You have ten minutes.” I have never
been one to bullshit and allow disrespect of any kind, and I am not
about to start now. Especially when it pertains to the one brightness
in the shadows that follows me.
“Sir… I… why... I mean... I didn't mean any…”
“That will be all.” I hang up not bothering with any further words.
I find my time is better spent when less needs to be explained.
After hanging up, I find myself rattling my pockets trying to get
my cock to go back down. My mind flashes to the look on her face
when I had her by the throat. I can’t help but ask myself over and
over if this is who I am? Shaking some of the fog off, I walk back
into the house needing to check on her and let her know the plans
for the next few hours.
I see Chrissy standing off to the side with her arms folded as she
looks out the patio. Even from here, I can see something is
bothering her. Everything in me wants to grab her, slam her against
the wall, and demand she tell me what is wrong. I was put here to
fix everything for her or anything threatening to shade her light. She
just has to know it.
“What’s wrong, Goddess?” I ask walking closer to her. My hands
twitch, calling for her skin to be beneath them. Asking, that I
somehow bring them to her face and caress her pale creamy skin.
Demanding, I find ways to bruise and mark her silky complexion.
Leaving evidence and proof that she is indeed spoken for and tied
down. As I take apart and put back together the inside of her pussy,
laying my brand on her and most importantly inside of her.
Instead of answering me, her eyes convey sadness for a flicker of
a moment before she replaces it with nonchalance. A disposition I
am more than fluent in. I use it myself when I am trying to hide my
plight. She shrugs and walks into the other room. I feel the
desperation rising inside of me, as the need to have her
acknowledge me every way possible becomes a virus. Lucky for her
my phone rings.
“Mom,” I say, responding to the woman who rescued, nurtured,
and taught me that love knows no color and has nothing to do with
blood.
“My son. How are you? What have you been up to?” I smile
knowing she is asking because I skipped the last dinner a couple of
days ago, not willing to leave Chrissy after finally getting my hands
on her. Knowing Baron, he probably ran his mouth. He always was a
mama’s boy.
“I am fine, mama. How are you and dad?”
“Oh, you know your father. He takes his job very seriously.” I
chuckle, knowing she is right. When they became our parents, my
mother was a nurse and my father was the mayor of Chicago. She
became a homemaker almost immediately, and within two years my
father became governor and has held that position ever since.
“When are you going to come and see me? You know I need my
weekly dose, or I start becoming a mama bear.” she laughs as she
says it, though I know she is being real. I have seen her be
overbearing, and though we loved it at first none of us ever having
had it, we quickly began to see it for what it is, a bit much.
“Soon mama. I promise. I just… have a little... jewel I need to
take care of first. Okay?” I am doing my best to give her as much
information as I can without telling her too much, causing her to ask
too many more questions.
“Sounds good my son. I…” Beep, Beep. My other line begins to
cut in and I see it is my office manager, Ingrid.
“I have to go mom. I promise, I will call you soon. Love you.” I
hurry and click over hoping she is here. “Ingrid.”
“You mind opening the door. I know I create miracles for you, but
I by no means am able to go through doors.” She is a pain in my
ass. Especially, since my mom has somehow become her new
favorite confidante. I am not expecting this errand to remain a
secret for long. Walking over to my wall and hitting the buzzer,
letting the gate open so she can come into the driveway. As I walk
to the front door to open it, I see Chrissy is already downstairs
sitting on the window seat looking out into the yard. My heart dies a
bit more knowing something is bothering her.
“Chrissy, I would like for you to meet my office manager…”
“And sometimes errand girl. Don’t forget that. Hi, my name is
Ingrid.” She extends her hand and smiles at my girl. I see Chrissy
look at me, her eyes conveying questions and surprise. The last one
is a bit confusing for me, but I will address it a bit later.
 “Ingrid has been gracious enough to bring over some clothes,
sent by a designer client of ours for you to try on. You need attire to
go well anywhere, and a few things to please me. I will leave you
two for a bit, while I make some calls.” Walking further into her
space, which is being generous since nothing about her belongs to
her anymore. My arms go around her waist and pull her into me.
“If you need me, Goddess, I will be a buzzer away. Understand?”
she lowers her head and shrugs her shoulders. Every nerve inside
me begins to beat. The alpha in me needs confirmation. Obedience.
Never mind the fact that we have an audience. Lifting her chin with
a finger under it, I force her to look at me. “I need words, baby.
Answer me with words.” I arch my eyebrow, so she knows I mean
business. She bites her lip as her chest begins to move up and
down.
“Yes, Marquise. I understand,” she whispers.
“Good girl,” I say before kissing her lips and walking to my office.
I have no clue how long I spend going over contracts and
paperwork. My mind is not following any of it, as I wonder how my
Goddess is doing right now. Giving up, I walk up the stairs and hear
muffled voices and giggles as the two of them obviously are finding
their stride.
“What’s so funny?” I ask walking in and almost tripping over my
feet. She is standing before me, facing a mirror in nothing but a pink
sheer bra and panty set. Her nipples are swollen and peeking out.
Teasing me, coaxing me to feast upon them. Her eyes encompassed
in arrogance and a bit of confidence I haven’t seen her show since I
rescued her. I like... No fuck that. I love it.
“Ingrid, we need a moment,” I say in a voice I don’t recognize.
It's deep, commanding, and unapologetic. It's filled with an
overwhelming need to touch and consume the beauty before me. I
want to become the only thing she can see, feel, and taste. Starting
now.
Ingrid walks out, knowing me enough to know that my voice
brokers no argument. I don’t even see her as she leaves the room
quietly and without a word. My eyes haven't left the sugar cube
starring me in the face. She is standing in front of my balcony door.
The sun shines behind her, causing a glow to illuminate every
decadent delicious translucent inch of her. Sitting on the couch, I
unbutton my sleeves and spread my legs. My arms are laid out
against the back. I can see some of her confidence slipping as she
begins to wonder if she somehow did something wrong.
“Come here, Goddess,” I say only this, and wait to see what she
does. She twirls her hair around her finger. Doubt is like a noisy
concert, filling the empty space of the room. “Chrissy.” She takes a
deep breath and walks over to me. “Sit.” She turns to sit sideways,
but I stop her. “Not like that. Spread your legs over mine.” She licks
her lips as she begins to straddle me, her hands on my shoulders
and the heat from her pussy causing my cock to groan. “I can see
you have something you’ve wanted to say to me, since before Ingrid
got here. I’m listening.” I move her hair off her shoulder and lean in
to kiss and sniff her. Her scent is something I am beginning to need
to make it throughout the day. If I don’t find a way to control it, I
am going to become a junkie.
“I heard you on the phone with… Lanissa. I was wondering….is
she...is she your girlfriend?” Hell. I didn’t know she heard me.
“No, Goddess. She...is not my girlfriend. If I had a girlfriend, I
wouldn’t be able to do this,” I say before wrapping my mouth around
her nipple through her bra, as my fingers slide up and down the side
of her underwear. I can feel the dampness. The slippery sticky sugar
her pussy is leaving behind, as she begins to move against me.
“Marquise,” she moans. Her hands yanking at my head. The pain
going straight to my balls, filling them up with the cream that is
going to bind her to me.
“Yes, Goddess. I’m here, baby. Just relax and let me play with my
pussy a bit.” Pulling down the cup of her bra, I pinch her little peaks.
Saliva seeping out the corner of my mouth. “You want that, don’t
you baby? You want me inside of you, showing you who you belong
to. Don’t you?” My fingers slide inside of her pussy, the slickness
making it easy.
“Oh God,” she keens, throwing her head back giving me access
to her neck. My tongue comes out and licks up the middle absorbing
her sweat.
 “Marquise, Goddess. Say it,” I command, my fingers moving in
and out making sure to rub against the rough spot inside of her, that
I know gives her the most pleasure.
“Marquise,” She barely whispers, moving faster.
“Say it again. I want you to say over and over, until you
remember never to call me by another man’s name. I don’t care if it
is the Almighty,” I say before sinking my teeth into her neck as I
brush my knuckles against her walls. My cock is squirting in my
pants, coating the inside of them. Like I give a shit. Grabbing her
hair, I pull it back forcing her to look at me.
“You feel me, baby. All up inside of you. Imagine my cock taking
the place of my fingers.” I pull my fingers out and put them in front
of her mouth. “Lick them. Suck your sugar off my fingers.” Her eyes,
glassy and filled with lust dilate as she does what I command,
putting my fingers in her mouth. “Fuck,” I groan out before
snatching them out of her mouth and shoving them back inside of
her. “Fucking kiss me, Chrissy. Right fucking now. Kiss me and come
for me baby.” Our mouths meet in a frenzy as my fingers pick up
speed. We kiss, each of us starving for affection and emotion.
“Marquise!!! Yes,” she says before I feel her pussy release all the
pent-up lust. She pants and rests her forehead against mine.
“You okay, baby?” I ask her, rubbing her back and hoping I
wasn't too rough. I can’t seem to reign it in around her. What the
hell am I going to do about it?
“I’m fine,” she says snuggling up against my neck. Her mouth
sweeping over it, before she lifts her head. “Was she really not your
girlfriend?”
“I promise, Goddess. I will never lie to you. Whether it will hurt
your feelings or not, you will always get the truth from me. Say you
understand.”
“I understand, Marquise,” she answers right away, sucking more
of the doubt from me when she does.
“Good girl. Now I am going to send Ingrid back in here to finish
helping you. I have to make a few more phone calls. You need
anything from me, before I go into my office, baby?” She shakes her
head no. “Okay.” I kiss her once more, taking a second to make sure
she can feel the sincerity of my devotion to her needs. Once I leave
the room, I go back into my office.
“She is ready for you now, Ingrid.” She leaves, but not before
giving me the mama stare. Yea, this is definitely not going to escape
my mom. I sit for a second before I give up and admit the truth. My
mind is not on work. Hasn’t been since I found her. Life is sure
taking an interesting turn.
Chapter Six
 CHRISSY

A t first when I heard him on the phone with that girl, I could feel
the walls closing in on me. It’s amazing that something so
mundane could affect me the way it did. There was nothing
flirtatious on his end of the call, but red flags started going off,
nonetheless. It was as if all the breath in my body decided to leave,
and I don’t think it was going to come back. I may have sounded
calm, cool, and collective, but I wonder about the pull between us
and if he already had someone else. Thankfully, he said all the right
words to reassure me, but my mind is telling me all kinds of things
that my heart doesn’t feel. Then he touched me, and I can’t believe
how that little amount of contact calms me down.
Oh, my God! I will definitely need more of that. How the hell
does he command my body with a simple act? When his hand slid
around my throat, it did something to me and I knew in that instant
that he’d never hurt me. Oh, he could have easily, but he didn’t. The
feeling of the pulse in his wrist at the base of my throat was just as
erratic as my own. Then, when he touched me and made me come,
which by the way is a boy oh boy did he make me come.
He planted his flag right then and there, and now he owns me. I
don’t know if he realizes it yet, but it will only be a matter of time
before he does. It scares me because I don’t know what it means.
Does he want to own me? It is amazing to realize that I am an
approval-seeking person, until he called me a good girl. In that
moment I felt cherished and validated, however for some reason it
Another random document with
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 [2]
NORWOOD, GILBERT. Greek tragedy. $5
Luce, J: W. 882

(Eng ed 20–16119)

“The summaries and criticisms of the extant plays constitute the

main body of the book, forty-eight pages being given to Æschylus,
fifty-four to Sophocles, a hundred and forty-one to Euripides. The
book, as the author says, ‘aims to cover the whole field of the Greek
drama, both for the student and the general reader.’”—N Y Evening
Post

“We think that, for Euripides, his present work is sound as well as
interesting. When we turn to his treatment of Æschylus and
Sophocles, we feel that in attempting to cover the whole ground, Mr
Norwood has undertaken more than he is at present ready to
perform.” J. T. Sheppard

+ − Ath p10 Jl 2 ’20 1250w

“It is certainly a convenience to have in one volume the literary

criticism of the extant plays and the general history of Greek tragedy
and the antiquities of the theatre, instead of looking for them in the
two volumes of Haigh. In these subsidiary matters Professor
Norwood’s scholarship though not independent is sufficient for his
purpose. He still retains the British awe of any and all German
scholarship and the British habit of ignoring American work.” Paul
Shorly

+ − N Y Evening Post p6 D 31 ’20 1800w

 “He writes throughout as an enthusiast, and illustrates his points
by modern parallels which are always ingenious, and often happy.
Reference might have been made to the modern performances of
various plays, for the best way to understand any drama is to see it
acted. The chapter on ‘Metre and rhythm’ at the end is an excellent
idea well carried out.”

+ − Sat R 130:39 Jl 10 ’20 200w

NOYES, ALFRED. Beyond the desert; a tale of

Death valley. *$1 (7½c) Stokes

20–18658

The story is symbolic of a soul losing itself in a desert of ideas

before it emerges into the light of clear understanding. James Baxter,
an I.W.W., is a prisoner in transport and escapes from a stalled train
into Death valley in the Arizona desert. His hardships bring on
delirium and in a trance he finds himself among a halted pioneer
party of 1849. In exchanging notes on their respective civilizations
with them he comes to see the error of his ways and when he is
finally rescued he goes among his I.W.W. comrades to convince them
also. He is successful with the crowd but the infuriated leaders kill
him.

“Though Mr Noyes’s work is earnest and readable, we wish that so

experienced a hand had not permitted polemics, poetics, and
melodrama to crowd the same pages.”

+ − N Y Evening Post p10 O 30 ’20 230w

 “The very qualities that one admires in such a poem as ‘The
highwayman,’ depreciate when used in the prose form. It is possible
that in verse the story would not seem so lacking in vitality. The
descriptions of the desert are good; the style is fairly clear; and yet
there is a quality of unreality, of dreaminess, of sentimentality.”

− + Springf’d Republican p5a Ja 2 ’21 260w

NOYES, ALFRED. Collected poems. v 3 *$2.50

Stokes 821

A volume containing all of Mr Noyes’ poems written between

October, 1913, and the present. With the two volumes published in
1913 it forms a complete edition of the poet’s verse to date. It
comprises The Lord of Misrule and other poems; The wine-press; A
Belgian Christmas eve; The new morning; The elfin artist and other
poems.

Booklist 17:146 Ja ’21

“Mr Noyes possesses a delightful singing gift in his carefree

moments—and can bore us almost to tears when the sense of his
‘message’ to the world descends upon him. When he turns to
glamourous romantic ballads and to brief, sincere, intensely spiritual
lyrics, such as ‘Paraclete,’ he is at his best.”

+ − N Y Evening Post p22 D 4 ’20 170w

 “Whenever he writes sermons and dissertations and criticisms in
verse he fails. Whenever he writes ballads he succeeds. However,
there are a few other poems in this volume for which we should
thank Mr Noyes, notably ‘Old gray squirrel,’ the pathetic ‘Court
martial’ and ‘A victory dance.’”

+ − N Y Times p25 Ja 30 ’21 620w

NOYES, ALFRED. Elfin artist, and other poems.

*$1.50 Stokes 821

20–17329

The elfin artist is the initial poem of this collection of verse written
by the author since the spring of 1919. Some of the other poems are:
Earth and her birds; Sea-distances; The inn of Apollo; The Sussex
sailor; In southern California; The riddles of Merlin; The isle of
memories; A ballad of the easier way; A Devonshire Christmas;
Beautiful on the bough; The bride-ale; A sky song; A return from the
air; A victory dance; The garden of peace; Four songs, after Verlaine.

“No Elizabethan could conceivably have written one of his poems.

The conscious romanticism, the sentimentality, the imperialism
expressed with a catch in the voice, the blurred, soft, unprecise
language, the barrel-organ tunefulness—all these things, so
characteristic of Mr Noyes, would have been impossible to an
Elizabethan.”

− Ath p142 Jl 30 ’19 420w

+ Booklist 17:106 D ’20
 “So sharply do these poems recall the poet of ‘The barrel-organ’
that we wonder whether the recent neglect of Noyes was reasonable;
surely, with such books as these, he will yet sing his way back into the
hearts of English readers.” S: Roth

+ Bookm 52:361 D ’20 110w

“Not in any of what may be termed the petulant and irritable,

spirited poems of this collection, striking as some may be for their
frank and vehement qualities, is Mr Noyes’s reputation either
sustained or enhanced. One may truly say that the poems that spring
out of the Sussex scene, with their half-bucolic and traditional mood,
alone retain the admiration of Mr Noyes’s readers.” W. S. B.

+ − Boston Transcript p9 S 18 ’20 1300w

“Their redeeming features are Mr Noyes’ ability to handle metre

and the very evident pleasure he takes in writing. That pleasure is a
quality quite lacking in many modern poets who write far better than
Mr Noyes.”

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“Mr Noyes continues to write his pleasant anachronisms and it

must be admitted that he does them with the usual dexterity and
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charm and no one will actually die of ennui while reading his lines.
But readers could far better occupy themselves with other poets, for
Mr Noyes brings nothing new to his readers, not even his thought.”
H. S. Gorman

+ − N Y Times p22 D 26 ’20 680w

 “‘The elfin artist’ is the product of the author’s mature lyric gift,
rich in variety or form and theme, and offering an equal appeal to the
emotions and to the mind.” Philip Tillinghast

+ Pub W 98:664 S 18 ’20 500w

“Mr Noyes continues to annoy the devotees of all the varieties of

free verse by his ability to use rhyme, and to observe the rules of
prosody.” E. L. Pearson

+ Review 3:249 S 22 ’20 140w

“His gift to literature is twofold. He can write well himself and he

can prevent others from writing badly.”

+ − Spec 124:729 My 29 ’20 700w

“With one or two exceptions, each of Mr Noyes’s poems is no

better and no worse than any of the others. To study the volume is to
get the impression of sameness, of easy fluidity, of lack both of
thought and of labour. His simplicity is not the simplicity of
compression and refinement. His responsiveness sweeps away his
thought.”

+ − The Times [London] Lit Sup p381 Je 17

’20 600w
+ Wis Lib Bul 16:235 D ’20 50w
 NOYES, FRANCES NEWBOLD. My A. E. F.; a
hail and farewell. *$1 (12c) Stokes 940.373

20–11506

A book in the form of a familiar talk to A. E. F. boys by a girl who

was a Y. M. C. A. worker in France. It is an appeal to them to
remember the ideals they fought for, and to apply them in the new
war “against selfishness and materialism and intolerance and
hatred.” It is reprinted from McClure’s Magazine.

“A very fine and moving bit of writing is Miss Noyes’s little book,
simple, comradely, full of memories, and wise with the wisdom of
Eve. The book ought to be read by every man who served on the
other side and also by every person at home who has ever said a
slighting word about any of the phases of the welfare work for the
army.”

+ N Y Times 25:11 Jl 11 ’20 1100w

NUTT, HUBERT WILBUR. Supervision of

instruction. (Riverside textbooks in education)
*$1.80 Houghton 371

20–10064

“The shifting, unprofessional character of the teaching body makes

the provision for competent supervision of instruction not only
desirable, but necessary.... The undertaking of training supervisors
involves the setting-forth of the job or activities of supervision, and
the organizing of the means by which supervisors can best be trained
to perform their duties.” (Introd.) The book is, accordingly, an
analytical discussion of the principles underlying class-room
supervision, and the devices and technique which should and which
should not be employed. It falls into two parts. Part 1, The job of
supervision, is a general survey of supervising activities. Part II[or 2?
—see above], Principles underlying the supervision of instruction, is
divided into the following sections: Supervisory method; Devices of
supervision; Technique of supervision. There is an index.

“The book is to be welcomed as one of the first serious and

successful attempts to create a specific literature for supervisors.”

+ El School J 21:69 S ’20 450w

+ School R 28:551 S ’20 180w

NYBURG, SIDNEY LAUER. Gate of ivory.

*$2.25 (1½c) Knopf

20–19577

This is the story of Allan Conway who loved a beautiful siren of a

woman and loved her so well that he allowed himself to be saddled
with her and her husband’s crime, in order to shield her and to
become an outcast for her sake. The remarkable part of the story is
that, as an outcast, he loved her still, that he did not become a cynic
—although he did take to drink periodically—and that he was even
happy in the dream life that he now lived with his Eleanor. This life
he elaborated in every detail from the house he built for and the
conversations he had with her even to their dream child. A Peter
Ibbetson with a difference is this Allan Conway.
 O

O. HENRY MEMORIAL AWARD. Prize

stories, 1919. *$1.90 (1½c) Doubleday

20–8630

A volume published as a memorial to O. Henry and composed of

the fifteen short stories which a committee of the Society of arts and
sciences of New York city have decided on as the best short stories of
1919. Blanche Colton Williams writes the introduction. Contents:
England to America, by Margaret Prescott Montague; “For they know
not what they do,” by Wilbur Daniel Steele; They grind exceeding
small, by Ben Ames Williams; On strike, by Albert Payson Terhune;
The elephant remembers, by Edison Marshall; Turkey red, by
Frances Gilchrist Wood; Five thousand dollars reward, by Melville
Davisson Post; The blood of the dragon, by Thomas Grant Springer;
“Humoresque,” by Fannie Hurst; The lubbeny kiss, by Louise Rice;
The trial in Tom Belcher’s store, by Samuel A. Derieux; Porcelain
cups, by James Branch Cabell; The high cost of conscience, by
Beatrice Ravenel; The kitchen gods, by G. F. Alsop; April 25th, as
usual, by Edna Ferber.

Booklist 17:119 D ’20

“One can only wish that more of such volumes might be issued, for
many of our American writers are at their best in the short story. The
‘O. Henry memorial award’ volume of 1919 is a book well worth
reading.”

+ N Y Times 25:319 Je 20 ’20 850w

+ − Review 3:132 Ag 11 ’20 140w

OAKESMITH, JOHN. Race and nationality; an

inquiry into the origin and growth of patriotism. *$4
Stokes 320.1

19–16466

“As the result of an attempt to arrive at a lucid conception and

precise definition of ‘a nationality,’ the author thinks that he has
discovered the explanation of nationality ‘in what may be formally
called the principle of “organic continuity of common interest”‘; and
the constructive part of the book is devoted to the elucidation of this
principle. The author considers that universal and lasting peace will
be secured, not by ‘the sudden imposition of hastily manufactured
machinery,’ but by the gradual extension of the above principle from
national to international life.”—Ath

Ath p961 S 26 ’19 120w

Reviewed by F. J. Whiting

Review 1:705 D 27 ’19 1200w

 R of Rs 61:336 Mr ’20 40w

Reviewed by I. C. Hannah

+ − Survey 43:504 Ja 31 ’20 360w

“This is a treatise of ability, displaying considerable knowledge of

the literature of the subject.”

+ The Times [London] Lit Sup p486 S 11

’19 120w

“It would not be difficult to show that there are inconsistencies in

the discussion and conclusions arrived at by Mr Oakesmith;
inconsistencies traceable largely to his desire to do justice to the
representatives of all shades of opinion. It may be more profitable
than dwelling on such points to note one or two omissions from the
volume, in particular the demands of what may be called pseudo-
nationality; that form of it which is not the slow result of
continuously operating influences, but is artificially created.”

+ − The Times [London] Lit Sup p600 O 30

’19 1200w

O’BRIEN, EDWARD JOSEPH

HARRINGTON (ARTHUR MIDDLETON,
pseud.). Best short stories of 1919. *$2 (1½c) Small
 The authors represented in this year’s volume are: G. F. Alsop;
Sherwood Anderson; Edwina Stanton Babcock; Djuna Barnes;
Frederick Orin Bartlett; Agnes Mary Brownell; Maxwell Struthers
Burt; James Branch Cabell; Horace Fish; Susan Glaspell; Henry
Goodman; Richard Matthew Hallet; Joseph Hergesheimer; Will E.
Ingersoll; Calvin Johnston; Howard Mumford Jones; Ellen N. La
Motte; Elias Lieberman; Mary Heaton Vorse, and Anzia Yezierski.
The book contains also an introduction by Mr O’Brien, discussing
points raised by Waldo Frank’s “Our America,” and the usual
features of the Year book of the short story.

Booklist 16:314 Je ’20

“Of the twenty stories an indifferent half-dozen barely pass the

average.... Sherwood Anderson’s ‘An awakening,’ and Joseph
Hergesheimer’s ‘The Meeker ritual,’ have the distinction of subtlety
and style, irrespective of theme. You feel about the other authors that
each might with a little effort have written the other’s story, but these
two of Anderson’s and Hergesheimer’s could only have been written
by themselves.” W. S. B.

+ − Boston Transcript p10 Mr 27 ’20 650w

Reviewed by Doris Webb

Pub W 97:603 F 21 ’20 380w

“Mr O’Brien’s standards define themselves with precision, and a

summary of his tests will serve as test for Mr O’Brien. He has no eye
for style. The second point in literature to which Mr O’Brien is
insensitive is tone. The third and final want is the sense of
workmanship. Mr O’Brien, however, has qualities which are as
incontestable as his limitations. He has a keen, if not infallible, sense,
of the powerful in motive, the original and trenchant in conception.
Mr O’Brien’s collection will be of service to those readers who are
wise enough to grasp its limitations.”

+ − Review 2:463 My 1 ’20 520w

O’BRIEN, GEORGE A. T. Essay on mediaeval

economic teaching. *$4.75 (*12s 6d) Longmans
330.9

20–20196

“Mr O’Brien passes in review the principal economic theories of

the medieval schoolmen, not continuing the study farther than the
beginning of the sixteenth century. In a concluding chapter he gives
reasons for a favourable estimate of the medieval economic doctrine
from the points of view of production, consumption and
distribution.”—The Times [London] Lit Sup

“It is a truism (which unfortunately is rarely true) to say of a new

book that it supplies a long felt want: but in the case of Dr O’Brien’s
essay to say so would be strictly true. Mediæval economic theory has
never before been discussed with the fullness it merited.”

+ Cath World 112:109 O ’20 480w

Reviewed by C: A. Beard
 Nation 111:480 O 27 ’20 800w

“It is a work of learning and ability, concerned rather with the

clear and concise presentation of doctrine than with the criticism of
it.”

+ The Times [London] Lit Sup p369 Je 10

’20 110w

“The historian who peruses this book will put it down with mixed
feelings of amusement over the wordy contest and of despair at the
unfamiliarity the combatants display with the alphabet of historical
science.”

− The Times [London] Lit Sup p466 Jl 22

’20 1000W

ODELL, GEORGE CLINTON DENSMORE.

Shakespeare from Betterton to Irving. 2v il *$12
Scribner 822.3

20–19676

“Professor Odell has undertaken to do for all Shakespeare’s plays,

tragedies and comedies, histories and dramatic romances, what has
hitherto been attempted for two of the tragedies only, in Miss Wood’s
‘Stage history of Richard III,’ and in Brereton’s rather sketchy
account of the various performances of ‘Hamlet.’ He has organized
his two volumes in eight chronological divisions: the age of Betterton
(1660–1710); the age of Cibber (1710–1742); the age of Garrick
(1742–1776); the age of Kemble (1776–1817); the leaderless age
(1817–1837); The age of Macready (1837–1843); the age of Phelps
and Charles Kean (1843–1879), and the age of Irving (1879–1902).
Not only does he give us what is to a certain extent a history of the
theatres of London, he also supplies us with what is almost (if not
quite) a history of the superb evolution of the art of scene
painting.”—N Y Times

Booklist 17:106 D ’20

“Students should be grateful to Professor Odell for the painstaking

manner in which he has traced the fate of Shakespeare on the
English stage. Mr Odell has attacked the subject with freshness and
zest. His enthusiasm never seems to flag.... Admire his work as I do, I
am convinced that had Mr Odell been more thoroughly in sympathy
with the new ‘unrest’ in the theater, he would have seen more clearly
certain points relating the past with the present.” M. J. Moses

+ Nation 111:sup660 D 8 ’20 1400w

“No better medium than the work of Professor George C. D. Odell

has thus far been provided to apprehend the gradual evolution of
stage decoration, costume, and attention to historic accuracy.” H. H.
Furness, jr

+ N Y Evening Post p6 D 4 ’20 1650w

“It is no dry-as-dust chronicle that he has here given us. It is a

readable book that he proffers, a book abounding in apt anecdote, in
illuminating quotation and in genial comment. Although the author
has had to correct many blunders and many misstatements of many
predecessors, he spares us the acrimony of controversy.” Brander
Matthews

+ N Y Times p2 O 24 ’20 300w

O’DONNELL, ELLIOT. Menace of spiritualism.

*$1.50 (3½c) Stokes 134

20–6366

The author of the book, himself an investigator in the field of

psychic research and a believer in spontaneous manifestations of the
spirits of the dead, condemns the practice of spiritualism, with its
mediumistic invocations of spirits as a vice. Its dangers are many.
From the point of view of orthodox Christianity it menaces faith and
morality alike; from that of the medical profession it is injurious to
health; from that of the greater number of most eminent scientists it
is a sham; and from the point of view of common sense it is a hotch-
potch of imbecility, gullibility, and roguery. Contents: Foreword by
Father Bernard Vaughan; “Spiritualism”—what is it? How
spiritualism tries to distort the Old Testament; Spiritualism and the
New Testament; Spiritualism and the churches; The phenomenal
side of spiritualism and its effect on the health; The danger of fraud
of all kinds at séances.

“He delivers some shrewd blows, and in a popular manner sets

forth a strong case against spiritualists and their operations.”

+ Ath p352 Mr 12 ’20 80w

 + Cath World 112:252 N ’20 40w
N Y Times 25:19 Jl 4 ’20 160w

“Such protests are welcome, however much they fall short of the
sanction of a high consistency; it is hardly to be expected that a critic
of Mr O’Donnell’s electric temper will find favor with those who see
in psychical research a far wider menace and a subtler attack upon
the fundamentals of sound thinking. Yet to part of the composite
clientèle from which latter-day recruits for the occult are gathered,
this earnest word of warning may prove helpful.” Joseph Jastrow

+ − Review 3:41 Jl 14 ’20 250w

Springf’d Republican p6 Je 1 ’20 400w
The Times [London] Lit Sup p143 F 26
’20 80w

O’DUFFY, EIMAR. Wasted island. *$2 (1c)

Dodd

20–16927

A story of Ireland and the Irish movement culminating in the

Easter rebellion. Bernard Lascelles, son of a successful Dublin
doctor, is brought up in ignorance of his country’s history. In fact it is
part of his father’s purpose to keep him in ignorance, fearing that the
boy may take after his uncle Christopher Reilly, who died fighting
England on the side of the Boers. Bernard is sent to an English
school, but in spite of his father’s efforts is drawn into the Nationalist
and later into the Sinn Fein movements, a letter left by his uncle
Christopher to be read on his twenty-first birthday proving the
turning point in his life. A very different bringing up is that of
Stephen Ward, whose father, a discouraged Fenian, hopes that his
son may never wreck his life in the hopeless cause but does not deny
him knowledge. Both young men oppose the Easter uprising but both
are involved in it. Bernard is wrecked by it but Stephen escapes.
“‘And now,’ said Michael Ward to his son, ‘now that everything has
turned out as I told you it would, what do you mean to do?’ ‘I
suppose,’ replied Stephen, ‘we must begin all over again.’”

Booklist 17:159 Ja ’21

“The story is long and the plot complicated but it is well told and
the interest is sustained to the close.”

+ Boston Transcript p8 D 11 ’20 350w

“Although, as an artistic piece of work, the book leaves much to be

desired, its vigour and sincerity save it from the category of the
mediocre.” L. M. R.

+ − Freeman 2:406 Ja 5 ’21 160w

“It is one-sided and its heroes are not very attractive characters,
but it is interesting and informing.”

+ − Ind 104:244 N 13 ’20 90w

 “Mr O’Duffy is refreshingly free from didacticism. He allows the
facts to explain for themselves, and does not make any indictment in
the bitter, devastating manner of Brinsley McNamara’s ‘The clanking
of chains.’ Regarded as a human document this book should be of
great interest and assistance to readers in America who want to
understand the Ireland which confronts them in alarming
headlines.” E. A. Boyd

+ N Y Evening Post p3 O 30 ’20 1300w

“The animus of the book as a whole is unmistakable. Hate for

England rather than love for Ireland is the mainspring of this active
‘patriotism.’” H. W. Boynton

+ − Review 3:422 N 3 ’20 380w

The Times [London] Lit Sup p104 F 12
’20 540w

OEMLER, MRS MARIE (CONWAY). Purple

heights. *$2 (2c) Century
 20–17411

The hero is Peter Devereaux Champneys, a boy of eleven when the

story opens. The scene is South Carolina where Peter lives in a four-
roomed cabin with his mother, who runs a sewing machine to keep
herself and Peter alive. Peter, who is considered a dunce in school,
spends all his odd moments making pictures. One day he sketches
the Red admiral—the beautiful butterfly that alighted on the
milkweed pod by the side of the road—and the Red admiral proves to
be his good fairy. His mother dies and Peter brings himself up, with
the aid of Emma Campbell, a faithful negress. An unknown uncle
appears out of the West and offers to send Peter to Paris, and so
anxious is Peter to get to Paris that he accepts the uncle’s strange
terms, marriage with an unknown Nancy Simms. His first sight of
Nancy Simms is disconcerting, for she is a red-haired virago, but he
runs away to Paris immediately after the ceremony and forgets her.
In Paris he becomes famous and in the meantime Nancy grows up to
be a beautiful woman and all ends well.

+ Booklist 17:73 N ’20

“Excellent, forceful writing appears on the earlier pages. Soon the

benevolent persons enter, one after another, and they reflect urban
life. The naturalness and sincerity of the story lessen.” R. D. W.

+ − Boston Transcript p4 O 27 ’20 500w

“A new author, writing real literature, is Mrs Oemler.” Lilian Bell