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When the wagonette reached their own house, between the chalk-quarry and the gravel-pit, the children were very sleepy, but they felt that they and the keeper were friends for life. Andrew dumped the children down at the iron gate without a word. "You get along home," said the Vicarage cook's cousin, who was a gamekeeper. "I'll get me home on shanks' mare."
Conceived of the mountains, built in their image, the face partook alternately of mountain terror or splendour; wholly, he remembered, of the splendour when her blood ran warm. No longer the chalk-quarry face, its paleness now was that of night Alps beneath a moon chasing the shadows. She might be casting her spells again.
But it never was, till they reached the very top of the hill, just past the chalk-quarry and before you come to the gravel-pit. And then there was a white house with a green garden and an orchard beyond, and mother said, "Here we are!" "How white the house is," said Robert. "And look at the roses," said Anthea. "And the plums," said Jane. "It is rather decent," Cyril admitted.
Conceived of the mountains, built in their image, the face partook alternately of mountain terror or splendour; wholly, he remembered, of the splendour when her blood ran warm. No longer the chalk-quarry face, its paleness now was that of night Alps beneath a moon chasing the shadows. She might be casting her spells again.
He considered that the wet chalk-quarry of a beauty had at all events the merit of not being a creature to make scenes. He went up to the sitting- room. If she was not there, he would leave his excuses. She was there, and seated; neither crying, nor smiling, nor pointedly serious in any way, not conventionally at her ease either.
He considered that the wet chalk-quarry of a beauty had at all events the merit of not being a creature to make scenes. He went up to the sitting-room. If she was not there, he would leave his excuses. She was there, and seated; neither crying, nor smiling, nor pointedly serious in any way, not conventionally at her ease either.
Beauchamp! And then he walked firmly out of Romfrey oakwoods, and, at a mile's distance from her, related to his countess Rosamund that the burial was over without much silly ceremony, and that she needed to know nothing of it whatever. Rosamund's face awoke him. It was the face of a chalk-quarry, featureless, hollowed, appalling. The hour was no later than three in the morning.
Her face was not the chalk-quarry or the rosed rock; it was oddly individual, and, in a way, alluring, with some gentle contraction of her eyelids. But evidently she stood in full repose, mistress of herself. Upon him, it appeared, the whole sensibility of the situation was to be thrown. He hardened.
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