The Feather Pillow

Alicia's entire honeymoon gave her hot and cold shivers. A blonde,
angelic, and timid young girl, the childish fancies she had dreamed
about being a bride had been chilled by her husband's rough character.
She loved him very much, nonetheless, although sometimes she gave a
light shudder when, as they returned home through the streets together
at night, she cast a furtive glance at the impressive stature of her
Jordan, who had been silent for an hour. He, for his part, loved her
profoundly but never let it be seen.

For three months--they had been married in April--they lived in a
special kind of bliss.

Doubtless she would have wished less severity in the rigorous sky of
love, more expansive and less cautious tenderness, but her husband's
impassive manner always restrained her.

The house in which they lived influenced her chills and shuddering to
no small degree. The whiteness of the silent patio--friezes, columns,
and marble statues--produced the wintry impression of an enchanted
palace. Inside the glacial brilliance of stucco, the completely bare
walls, affirmed the sensation of unpleasant coldness. As one crossed
from one room to another, the echo of his steps reverberated
throughout the house, as if long abandonment had sensitized its
resonance.