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lucynka.bsky.social
Lucynka
@lucynka.bsky.social
350 followers 34 following 2.9K posts
Of the blog “Lucynka Reviews Obscure Bullshit.” Girls don’t want boys, girls want feminist analyses of Cornell Woolrich stories. Currently also reviewing stories from the romance pulps.

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Books: lucynka.wordpress.com/en-prise-press/
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lucynka.bsky.social
#FamousLastWords
Harry Wilkes drew his hand away from hers. His manner said that he was not to be laughed at and cajoled. He spoke somewhat stiffly. "Do you know what I heard in the hotel this noon?" he asked. He did not wait for her reply but went indignantly on: "I heard that Pedro de Rosarieros was here in Escondido. In this town. The police know it—every one knows it. And he's free, roaming the streets—" "Who's he, Harry?" Felicia asked. Harry spoke impressively, darkly: "My dear girl, if you would only read the papers! He's the worst bandit since Villa. He preys on [continued in next] these little towns. The people like him—that's his hold. But he's a cutthroat, a desperado." "Well, for mercy's sake!" Felicia said almost despairingly. "This man I talked to wasn't Pedro—whatever his name is. He wasn't a bandit. He was an awfully decent sort." "How do you know?" Harry asked. "You haven't any way of telling what he was. This Pedro—they say he's an awfully fine-looking chap. But he's been known to carry women off to the hills." "Harry, my dear, don't be that way!" "He's got a sort of castle off there," Harry said. "The women—they're never heard from again. Now do you see why I'm so anxious about you? Any one you meet on the street—you don't know who these people are—any one you talked to might be this man." "He's not," Felicia said. "And if he was, he couldn't kidnap me. Harry, dear old thing, I'm an American citizen. Don't be melodramatic and absurd."
November 26, 2025 at 2:30 AM
lucynka.bsky.social
Still too mentally occupied to sincerely work on my review for this book, so instead I'm just going to share some other interesting excerpts.

But yeah, it's literally canon that this motherfucker (affectionate) looks Mexican/Latino, unlike his half-brother. (WHO WAS HIS MOM???)
Certainly in looks and tradition, he was of Mexico.
November 26, 2025 at 1:54 AM
lucynka.bsky.social
This one is short and sweet, but also devastating. 💀 #WattpadMafiaBoss
Had to read this for college. Kind of bad. But also fun?? Problematic but like in an entertaining wattpad mafia boss way
November 24, 2025 at 3:31 AM
lucynka.bsky.social
This is another take I respect (and one that might even make me respect the characters themselves a little more???). 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨
I'm not going to rant about the Sheik, Diana's stupidity, or the rape. Those are just givens and many before me have already shared similar sentiments (re: outbursts of rage). I'll just say that there's definitely something going on between the Sheik and Gaston, Raoul, and Yusef that's worth exploring in a work of fanfiction.
November 23, 2025 at 4:34 AM
lucynka.bsky.social
Reading Goodreads reviews of THE SHEIK (partly for research but also partly for entertainment), and shout-out to this particular bit of this particular 1-star review. Such pure, unmitigated rage; I respect it so much. 🫡 #romance #romancelandia #ScreamAndDieAndDie #NotLikeOtherArabs
i'm so sick of talking about this book, lmao. NO ONE ASKED ME TO, but i'll tell you this: the racism sure ignited a fire within ME. a fire OF RAGE. SO SPOILER: AHMED AIN'T EVEN ARAB. HE'S BRITISH/SPANISH MIXED KID. THE BOOK goes on to assure us of his ''''INEXTRICABLE ARAB WILDNESS''' (christ on a cracker i am CLENCHING my jaw here, grinding these poor blunt molars to dust). but idk why i even opened with that; that's the least of the books crimes. but it's just so neat innit; you get allllll the ''''fantasy''' of some '''WILD HOT NATIVE SAVAGE''' but sIKE still ur dainty little white heart, english girlies; he's still BY BLOOD a respectable member of british high class BUT SO WILD!! SO UNTAMED!! SO CULTURED!! SO UNCULTURED!! SO CAPRICOUS!! SO HANDSOME!! I WANNA SCREAM AND DIE AND DIE!! ugh. i might be getting too unintelligble for this. highlights of this shit i absolutely hated the guts of: ahmed is so like...'not like other arabs' is really going on here. EM Hull was really like well for a rapist he's ~complicated....he has a veterinary textbook...and he speaks FRENCH. like they really rolled up every goddamn racialised lover stereotype into one package:
November 23, 2025 at 2:49 AM
lucynka.bsky.social
These people are totally implied to be wanted by the law, or otherwise unable to live in regular Mexican society for whatever reason. Otherwise, why make your home hidden deep in the mountains, requiring one to travel dangerously narrow passes to get there?

IT DOES NOT ADD UP, IS WHAT I'M SAYING.
Quite without reason, she got a sense, sudden and poignant, of the man's utter loneliness. He was master here, a king in a small way. And yet this place was merely a refuge to him, nothing more. The brand of Cain was on him. He was outlaw among his fellows, a bandit, to be run down some day, as inevitably as the moon was rising over the mountains. He straightened suddenly and turned to her. "A sweet place!" he said, still hesitatingly. She had a sense of the oddity of the gentle phrase in his mouth. "A place where a man is safe—safe and shut off from the world. You—you think, señorita, that my band of followers are desperadoes. Let me tell you that they are faithful and kind to their families, devoted to their mothers and their wives. And I—I am the father of them all. They look to me—do you understand?—for everything. Food and clothes and liberty to walk this little bit of the earth that is ours." He came close to her, took her hand in his, and stood looking down at her. "So small a piece of earth!" he said. "So worthless to any one else! Even if every man's hand is against us, still here we are safe, we are happy."
November 19, 2025 at 3:15 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
Felicia's uncle is literally there to buy Mexican mines, and the hero's like, "NO, I DON'T KNOW YOUR UNCLE AT ALL," and then his face "darken[s]" when she's no longer there to see him. Would his face really darken if he was in love from the get-go? (To say nothing of how it's clearly a ransom???)
"Well, maybe Felicia likes it, but Harry and I've had enough, hey, Harry?" said Uncle Dan jovially. Uncle Dan was daily entertaining in his hotel room certain dark-skinned gentlemen from over the border who had to do with Mexican mines which they were anxious to sell, but not at Uncle Dan's price. Quite definitely, he had had enough of THEM. "I have a kingdom—over there," he said, "a place where I am shut away from the world. I should like to show it to you—" "I—I couldn't—" she began. "Not you alone, señorita," he said, with simple poise. "You and the little señora, your aunt, and your uncle—any of your party who would care to come and see." She wondered suddenly if this was a new scheme to get to Uncle Dan, and a quick sense of disappointment smote her. If it should be that—just business! "You know who my uncle is?" she asked. The big man shook his head. "I do not know. I only know that he has for niece a maiden with hair like gold and eyes that turn the heart in me to water. I only know—" But she was definitely not equal to this. She drew back and said confusedly: "I must go." It was incredibly sweet to be young, and it was sweet that a man should find her fair. And a rose was poor enough return to give to him for the lovely tribute he had given her. "A rose for a song!" she said. "And—thank you again, señor!" She was gone, scarlet-cheeked, wondering at her own daring, to the safety of her room. And the man stood where she had left him for a long time, his face darkening. At last he thrust the flower into his breast and strode away to be lost in the crowd. "See," he said. "I think there is misunderstanding between us. You are believing—are you not?—that poor, foolish bandit has seen you in Escondido, has begged a rose from you, has fall' in love with you. Is it not so, señorita?" She could not answer. Scarlet ran over her chin and cheeks, into the roots of her fair, disheveled hair. She bit her lip and was silent. "Do not be afraid, señorita," Pedro de Rosarieros said gravely. "Do not fear me that way. I shall not annoy you with look or word. Why, what is the rose flung from balcony between friends? Nothing. I am aware of it. Any pretty señorita might have done the same on a bright and sunny morning. No, it is not your roses nor your—your loveliness that has brought you here." His voice deepened, shook a little. "I sing songs to you," he said earnestly, and then he laughed, a wild gay laugh. "Songs—they mean nothing from me to you! You will be relieve' to hear it, no doubt, for it is so! Already a messenger have gone back to Escondido with news of you. And there he will wait until certain little negotiations I have make have go through. And then, rest assured, you shall be restored again, unhurt, to those who love you."
November 19, 2025 at 4:02 AM
lucynka.bsky.social
AH-HAH! And from toward the beginning of the book, at that!

I really do think the story was supposed to go in a moderately different direction, but Hogue had to bork the ending. (Who was Hugh's mom? Why does Felicia immediately clock bearded, tanned hobo!Gerald as Anglo, but not "the señor"?)
An excerpt about Gerald from chapter 4 ("But I Must Help Him!"), page 55: He had been going steadily down, and he had been alone and as helpless as a little boy. He was the youngest of his family. The stern old father and the elder half brother both had spoiled him. How had he come to run away and even try to be on his own?
November 18, 2025 at 8:18 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
Anyway, "Ellen Hogue" was the pseudonym of Eleanor Kerkhoff (née Stinchcomb). SERENADE is dedicated to her grandmother, whose name was…wait for it…(Mary) Ellen Hogue (née Singleton).
The dedication page. It reads, "FOR MY GRANDMOTHER."
November 18, 2025 at 7:49 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
Fucking called it.
"You had a younger, weaker brother," she said, as if it was a lesson she had learned. "And he was the favorite at home. Your father loved him best. Your father could bear anything about you, but nothing about the younger brother. "And he—Gerald was frightened. He came to you and told you he was a thief. And you took the blame. You took the blame."
November 16, 2025 at 4:03 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
I kind of love Aunt Fanny (not least because she's surprisingly complex for an older female character).
"She's got to understand what she's getting into, Mrs. Warder." This from Harry, bleak-eyed, hard-lipped. Aunt Fanny bristled like a cross old cat. "What's the matter with you? Do you have the face to stand there and tell me you're going to hold her to a promise to you, knowing how she feels about another man?" Harry declared himself then, once and for all. He was definitely not the forgiving kind. "I'm glad you brought that up, Mrs. Warder. I feel I ought to make myself clear. I don't feel as I used to about Felicia. I—I guess I've got a different ideal for the girl who's to be my wife. Felicia's too flighty. I'm through with all that. But I'm trying to show her what she's up against, just because I wish her well." "Hm-m-m!" Aunt Fanny said, with scorn. "If you wish her so well, why don't you act that way? Best thing you can do is to clear out and leave her alone."
November 16, 2025 at 3:47 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
Yup, there it is. Confirmed that "the señor" is actually secret white, Hugh Herriot. Still waiting to see if the second part of my earlier prediction is true.

That said, there's no denying that this is still a very exciting climax!
The señor—he was a man whom life had lost. He was lost in an abyss of fury and pain. He knelt beside the man he had shot, forgetful of Felicia and of the whole world. He gathered the unconscious body into his arms. "Gerald!" he cried. And then: "Gerald—Gerry! Little boy—my brother!"
November 16, 2025 at 3:31 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
Gotta admit I'm disappointed in this development, but also not terribly surprised? It could be that "kidnapping for love" was more acceptable in a romantic hero at the time than "kidnapping for money." (Or, at the very least, considered more romantic?)
She bent to put her arms about him, tried to lift him to his feet. Her heart was a trip hammer against her side, she was in terror. "I brought you here," he said. "I have lied to you, my own darling. I did not ask a ransom. I have sent no word to them except that you were safe. I saw you, and I loved you, and I stole you from them. Now I must give you up to them. I see now that it could never have been."
November 16, 2025 at 3:23 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
Blasphemy.

(Also, maybe this is why I'm so goddamn picky about sex scenes in the romance novels I read, and end up rolling my eyes at them more often than not?)
Excerpt from the above paper. It reads: In Christina Lauren's SWEET FILTHY BOY, as the MMC, Ansel, 'mov[es] in and out of [Mia]' (2014b, 89), the FMC, Mia, makes the declaration that she 'won't need his fingers or [hers] or a toy' (2014b, 89). Rather, she will be able to achieve orgasm in the culturally 'right, good, normal' way (from penetration) as opposed to the 'immature' clitoral orgasm (Nagoski 2015, 275).
November 16, 2025 at 2:07 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
On the one hand, consent issues—but on the other hand, it's such a bizarre punishment for attempted murder that I almost respect it? ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ #SeñorScreamingKissHimKissHim
"It will not be too hard a punishment for YOU!" the señor cried jovially, and turned again to Rosa. "Kiss him!" he commanded. Rosa stared, wide-eyed. Then she scowled blackly, and said: "I will not!" Her whole being was tense with defiance. The kindly hand on her shoulder tightened and was no longer kind. "KISS HIM!" the señor said again. "He has earned a kiss from you. He loves you. He has risked his life to save you. Go to him and kiss him on the lips." He added: "If you do not, there will be a burro train leaving here to-morrow morning. And in it, you shall be—bound for a convent where they will teach you manners, my wild Rosa." She stared, and then, without a word, she went straight to Ramon, her hands hanging at her sides, her little face very white. Evidently there came a moment when the señor was obeyed even by this wild creature, and no matter what he asked. She lifted her lips. "I would rather die," she said directly to the young man. "And I 'ate you. But do as—as the señor commands." "Señorita Rosa—" the boy murmured. For a moment, it seemed that he, too, would refuse to obey the señor. Then with a sound that was half a sob, he gathered the unyielding little figure into his arms.
November 16, 2025 at 2:47 AM
lucynka.bsky.social
AWW, YEAH, THERE IT IS.
She turned to go and he stopped her. "Señorita—" he said. Men had kissed her in her time. Gerald had kissed her. His lips had been boyish and cool and sweet. And Harry had kissed her, of course. Rather as a matter of course, restraining himself, remembering all the time he did it that she was engaged to him and that some day she would be his wife. There was a certain respect in his caress that had nothing to do with love. No man had ever kissed her, really, until the señor. She had wanted this. She had dreamed of it, hating him, wanting him. [continued in next] He put his arms about her quite simply, with no apologies. She lifted her face. "Señorita—" he said, still in that odd, broken tone. And then his lips were on hers, his arms were about her. She could not have drawn away from him, for he was steel and fire. She did not want to draw away. "Felicia!" He sighed her name against her mouth. She had never felt anything like the pressure of his lips. She hung in his arms, limp and helpless against him, and he kissed her, not once but many times. He did not even say: "I love you," as Gerald had said it long ago, and as Harry had said it not so long ago. Merely he held her, kissing her again and yet again, as if the kiss itself was reason enough for its giving. She asked no questions. There was nothing she could say. She was thrilling as she had never thrilled to the caresses of any man.
November 15, 2025 at 11:01 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
Weird bit of gender essentialism there, but okay.

Feel free to finish that sentence with the words of your choice. ("And then later to scream in murderous rage as she wreaks vengeance upon her enemies," for instance!)
The señor came over to the singer and leaned on the polished dark top of the piano. "You have a very lovely voice, señorita," he said. She looked up into his eyes and could not speak. "You have given me great pleasure with your little song. A woman who does not sing—she is not a real woman. For behold, the exquisite voice of a girl it has been given her for more than one purpose. To sing and to stir the heart of a man. And then later—"
November 15, 2025 at 10:50 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
Chapter fifteen, almost two-thirds of the way through, and we might finally get a kiss??? (⁠✿⁠☉‿☉⁠) #fingerscrossed
CHAPTER XV A Kiss and a Dagger
November 15, 2025 at 10:14 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
This book is surprisingly psychological, but not at all boring? (Perhaps because the psychology on display is actually very realistic and compelling?)
Quite suddenly and half ashamedly, she thought of him as he would be when he was married, and had little brown-eyed sons to adore him. He would be gentle with them, and tender and wise, as he was with the small colt. They would never fear him, they would worship him as every one else on the hacienda did. She felt a sudden, surprising pang of terror at the thought of the danger he was in. At this very moment, Harry, with men to help him—perhaps even Uncle Dan—was near. At any moment, they might descend on the rancho. Oddly, [continued in next] she had no doubts as to the outcome. This great, wild, contradictory creature would be taken. Would he be shut away behind bars somewhere to eat his spirit out in captivity? Or would he be killed—die, perhaps, in this land where he was life itself to a hundred human beings? Perhaps she was merely being sentimental and womanish to fear for him! After all, he had done her a great wrong. She might have died here in captivity, or on the way, of exposure and terror. In spite of his kindness, he had brought the worst trouble of their lives to Aunt Fanny and Uncle Dan, and to poor Harry. And even perhaps to Gerald Herriot, whom she might have helped back to decency if she had not been snatched from Escondido.
November 15, 2025 at 9:16 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
They haven't even been all that physically close to each other, but already there's more sexual tension here than there is in a lot of modern romance novels.
"Enough of this!" she said. "I'm—tired of it. I shall tell you, señor, just nothing. Why, what would you do if I told?" She was rather magnificent as she stood there, small and defiant, with a pride which had nothing to do with temper, far more impressive than the fury she had given way to a moment ago. She had hoped for aid from Rosa, but she knew now that it was not to be forthcoming. She was not to be saved from the wrath of the man who held her. And so she was reckless because she was com pletely despairing. There is a certain courage and dignity which comes with that state of affairs. "What would you do if I told?" she asked, almost amused, her eyes on the dark faces before her. [continued in next] The señor eyed her with unwilling admiration. He said: "I should punish the transgressor, señorita, rest assured of that. You see, I know that, whoever he was, he attempted murder. It was murder to send you out alone on the trail." "You object to murder, do you?" "I object to murder," the señor told her gravely. "And if I do not tell?" Felicia asked. "Then I shall not be able to punish the real criminal—but I shall undoubtedly punish you." She even managed a shaky little laugh. "I am willing," she said, "to take my own crimes on my own head. I ran away—yes. I shall do so again if I ever get another chance. When I get out of here, I shall have you hunted down like a rat. Now—get on with whatever is to come!" He stared at her, brown eyes fierce and hard, looking into blue eyes as hard and hot as steel.
November 15, 2025 at 7:45 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
Sharing these pages in full because they're just that good. (Apologies for the liberties I had to take with the alt-text of the first image—I didn't have quite enough characters.)
How pathetic her attempt at flight had been she hadn't grasped until now. 1 girl, young & alien, defying not only the man she'd longed to circumvent but also a loyal army of slaves! It was more than pathetic, it was absurd. It was fitting that she should be here, humiliated, facing this man, twice his captive, helpless under whatever punishment he might devise. That he'd punish her for her disobedience, she'd no doubt, despite his leniency before his men. For some reason he'd shielded her from his wrath in their presence. Perhaps to them, even in private, he was keeping up the ridiculous farce of her being his guest. His guest! His & Rosa's & the señora's! & 1 of them had carried her off, & 1 of them hated her & perhaps had betrayed her, & 1 of them wldn't lift a finger to help her. He returned to her & stood before her, eying her out of bleak dark eyes. There was no expression in his face. She caught at the last small remainder of her pride & made herself lift her own eyes, returning stare for stare. Unaccountably she was filled w/ an impulse to catch his hard brown hand in hers & beg him to forgive her. For what? She laughed at herself. For trying to escape a house where she was held prisoner! Why shld she feel that it was she who'd committed a crime? The crime was his. He was a bandit, an abductor of women. She was merely his victim. It wasn't she who shld feel guilty & weak & sorrowful for what she'd done. She set her lips & stood w/ her feet apart in deliberate imitation of his attitude, her hands thrust into her pockets. Standing so, she looked like a young boy—a weary, travel-stained & yet courageous young boy. He said after a moment: "Well?" and Felicia echoed him. "Well, what?" she asked defiantly & fiercely. "You knew I would try to leave if there was a chance of it, didn't you?" His eyes were hot & black, deep wells w/ no meaning for her, w/ no mercy in their depths. "Let me tell you something," he said. "Of a child—but no more a child than you —who wandered away from this rancho last year! She was fourteen, but she was trained in reading the marks of this country. A pine, to her, meant a sudden turn in the road. The greenness of a certain patch of grass meant that here, somewhere, there was a spring. She had some quarrel with her people.They were too strict, she longed to live in a city—a young girl's foolishness! She departed on one of my horses on a path that she had been over in company with her people many times. She was going to where it was I found you—Escondido—to see the world." He paused, and Felicia met his eyes, but her look was faltering a little now. Her hands were trembling in spite of her resolute determination. "She was found," the señor said, "this girl, this child of the hills, a month later. That is, her bones were found." Felicia asked: "What—what happened to her?" He shrugged. It was, his manner said, a matter of complete indifference to him—the foolish daring of young women. "The pass is nearly impossible," he said lightly. "Surely you must have seen that, señorita, who have come over it so lately. Do you not remember how the stones rolled from beneath our feet? Do you not recollect how once that entire cavalcade of men took the wrong turn? We did—and went an hour out of our way. Is your memory so short that it seemed to you child's play—our coming safe over those mountains? We fourd the girl that little girl I tell you of. Yes. Who knows what had happened to her? Starvation, perhaps. Perhaps fear, or even wild animals. At least, the coyotes had got to her long before we ever came." He was trying to frighten her. He was bully- ing her. He was trying to wring a cry from her. She blanched to the lips. "Now let me tell you something, señor!" she said, as fiercely as he had spoken. "Let me tell you: I would rather be lost in those hills as that poor child was lost—lost and killed and my bones picked clean—than be here with you in this hateful place." She went close to him, her pallor dying, the color of anger flaming into her face in two scarlet spots on her cheek bones. Her eyes were blazing. Something in his look and tone had roused a fury in her. She was weak physically. He could have caught her in those great hands of his and broken her to bits—might still do just that!—and she knew it. But spiritually she was as strong as he. All the hot blood of youth, all the sturdy courage that was her inheritance, rose up in her. He might kill her if she defied him—probably would. But she must tell him what she thought of him. "Are you trying to frighten me?" she asked, her voice shaking with wrath. "I am trying to warn you, senorita, so that never again—" "You're very brave, aren't you?" she said, in a voice that was meant to cut him like a whiplash across his face. "You're very brave, trying to terrorize me with your wild tales! Let me tell you, señor, that if your men had not caught me, I should have been far from here by now, and on the right road, and out of your hands! Let me tell you—" He cried with sudden agony in his voice: "Senorita, when it was discovered that you were missing, I was in terror myself! For you! It was agony to me to think of what I had brought you to. It was agony to think that your head might be brought low, the music of your voice stilled forever. I—" She laughed at him. "You troubador!" she said. "You romantic creature! Fearing for my pain! Suffering agonies of fear for ME!" There were beads of sweat on his forehead, and his lips were livid. "You do not know!" he said. "I know—I who know this country. You cannot guess what might have happened." "I am not afraid of you," she told him, "nor of your wild hills, nor of anything your wretched men, who are only slaves, can do. I—I would scorn to be afraid. Why—why, what ARE you, señor?" She caught her breath, her hands clenched, the nails digging into the palms. "You rather fancy yourself, don't you?" she asked. "You delight in sweeping down from the hills—you bold, bad man—and carrying off helpless women. I will tell you something. You are no hero, no figure of romance. You are a common criminal, a kidnaper, and an abductor. And you are a coward, too." He stared at her for a moment and then caught her by the shoulder, forcing her into a chair. There was violence in the quick movement. She felt it in the grip of his fingers. She knew that he was angry now as she had not seen him angry before. Anger was in his touch and danger—even murder. She closed her eyes. He shook her. "Tell me," he said, standing over her, "who helped you? Tell me at once." There was a movement on the stairway back of them. Felicia did not really hear the faint sound; rather she felt it. Some one had been listening to their raised voices, some one was coming down softly, stealthily now. The señor did not lose his grip nor look up, but she knew that he heard, too.
November 15, 2025 at 4:48 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
Definitely playing with the same dark, dangerous imagery of THE SHEIK here. (Context: Felicia tried to escape, but was recaptured.)

It's also lending credence to my theory that SWEETHEART STORIES was the romance mag for weird, borderline kinky/taboo shit, lolol. #pulp
They turned into the yard before the low, rambling veranda, and Felicia straightened in her saddle. The señor was in the doorway, waiting for them. He had seen them come. His haggard dark eyes were fixed on Felicia's white face, his lips were set. The man stood immovable, his gaze on her, a giant, cruel and implacable. In his hand he clutched a heavy dog whip.
November 15, 2025 at 3:18 PM
lucynka.bsky.social
🔥👀🔥

#TurnTheHoseOnMe
His mouth fascinated her. She studied it and could not think of anything else. What would the kisses of such a man be like? Ruthless? Savage? She knew that they would be that, for what was he but a willful, savage boy grown to man's estate? But was there no tenderness there? After he had talked to her on her balcony in Escondido, she had gone in and had thought of kissing a man—such a man as this—with fire. She thought of it again, now. She imagined her own mouth against his, felt in her imagination the hard lips burning her own, hungry and fierce and then becoming tender with such a sweetness that the idea of it turned her faint.
November 15, 2025 at 2:51 AM
lucynka.bsky.social
Calling it now: Pedro de Rosarieros is actually the long-lost (white) older brother of Gerald, who took the fall for his little brother when said li'l bro stole some money (which is why Gerald feels so guilty and has basically destroyed his own life searching for Big Bro).

We'll see if I'm right.
Poor Gerald! For such a little while, she had loved him! "I had almost forgotten that sort of love," she told the señor. "And I am glad that I have forgotten. For I do not think it is the best." "I knew one who loved like that," the man said, as if she had explained everything. "I knew one—a boy. He loved a girl. He did not have what he thought was enough money for her. A whole life was changed because of his love, and it was the life of my little brother. You do not blame me because I am bitter of such things, señorita?"
November 15, 2025 at 2:40 AM
lucynka.bsky.social
I kind of love the term "twentieth-century feet"?
She herself wore a thin white gown which the señora had brought her. She had gone upstairs to bathe before dinner, and the dignified old lady had brought the dress in to her, and with it, slippers that were a little tight for Felicia's twentieth-century feet, but not uncomfortable.
November 15, 2025 at 1:03 AM