“I'm spending! Oh, papa-husband! Spend with me -now! Father, make me a baby! Not so hard, you'll spoil your little wifie!”
“Oh, Fanny! I'm spending! Oh, darling It's-too- much. Ugh There There! It burns me!”
He dropped flat on her body, stifling her cries with the pressure of his hot mouth, as they both spent together.
All was still. The room was quite quiet. No sound could be heard but Fanny's sighs of pleasure, growing gradually weaker and weaker, and her father's stertorous breathing as he lay heavily upon her, his eyes closed in the oblivious repose of satisfied lust.
“Well, Fan, how did you run on just now! What would your ma say if she could have heard you?”
A slight noise resounded through the room, near the fireplace, in a corner-it seemed to Sandcross who started and turned towards the screen. Fanny sat up and her glance followed that of her father.
The flimsy barrier fell, and Fanny's mother stood stiffly erect. In one hand she held her little bottle and reticule; the other was stretched out towards her naked husband and daughter. Although the room was nearly dark, Mrs. Sandcross's white face and staring blue eyes, showing a vast and terrifying dilatation like unto mother-o'-pearl round the pupils, gleamed out against the blackness of the shadows as if the features were illumined from within, and lighted up the space immediately surrounding her mask of agony.
“You vile wretches” she gasped out, in hoarse tones-almost like those of a man. “Curse you both! May you- I-I-oh!”
A long, low, painful sigh came from the innermost depths of her panting breast, and she dropped back in the armchair. Her eyes closed peacefully. All anger left her face. She was still, reposing, as it appeared, after the great shock.
“Oh, pa! She's fainted,” whispered the nude daughter, catching up her petticoat, by an automatic movement of long-forgotten pudicity in the presence of her mother.
Sandcross stepped forward, placing his hand on his wife's shoulder, and gazing intently into her face. All at once, he started back.
“No, Fanny. She's dead!”
The verdict was heart failure. The joyous emotion of meeting a beloved husband and dutiful daughter when still weak from prolonged illness had been too much for her. All her lady friends envied her painless, sudden, happy death in the arms of the loved ones to whom she had just been reunited.
Fanny and her father are perfectly and unreservedly happy. They never leave each other. If you are fond of visiting Parisian playhouses, on subscribers' nights, or on the second or third performance of a new piece, you cannot forego having the beautiful Miss Sandcross pointed out to you.
You will know her by the wondering infantile simplicity in the candid glance of her violet eyes. She wears a magnificent ruby and diamond brooch, in which is set a most artistic little miniature of her doting father, whom you will notice always seated behind her in the private box, and supping with her afterwards.
