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From: | Jessy Hill |
Subject: | exhaustion |
Date: | Sat, 26 Aug 2006 17:44:28 +0900 |
Were these taverns, were these wits, were these
poets?
At those words a delicioustremor ran through her
frame.
She compared the flowers toenamel and the turf to
Turkey rugs worn thin. The smoke went up from a thousand chimneys. But that start
was not of the kind thatmight have been expected. Hisform combined in one the
strength of a man and a womans grace.
He had the deepest suspicion thather God was
Nature.
At those words a delicioustremor ran through her
frame. So far, we are on the firm, if rather narrow, ground of
ascertainedtruth.
Well, she would,if he wished it, have the very
thinnest, smallest shiver in the world.
They would none of them thinkthe worse of her for
that.
The Captain at once sent to ask the honour of her
companyashore with him in the longboat. But nobody has ever known exactly what took
place later thatnight. The heads of rebels had grinned on pikes at Temple
Bar.
This, he said, was what her God did to
men.
Whatever science or ingenuity could do to waken
himthey did.
Already the young men had plottedher
death.
How tell him that she, who now trembled on his arm,
had beena Duke and an Ambassador?
The gipsies followed thegrass; when it was grazed
down, on they moved again.
But inevery other respect, Orlando remained
precisely as he had been.
Trees were withered hags,and sheep were grey
boulders. But inevery other respect, Orlando remained precisely as he had been.
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