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"Well, but you are very young; life looks like that peaks, you know, and vistas, and all the rest when one is young. You've not had time to find it out, to be disappointed," said Sir Basil. Imogen's calm eye rested upon him, and even before she spoke he knew that he had made a very false step.
Imogen glanced at herself in the mirror with a grave effort to assume the expression demanded of her. "Is this better, Jack?" "Yes no; no, you can't get at all what I mean," the young man returned, so almost pettishly that Valerie glanced up at him with a quick flush. Imogen's resentment, if she felt any, did not become apparent. She accepted condemnation with dignified patience.
Imogen's mind slipped from link to link of the trivial, yet significant, matter with an ease and certainty of purpose that was like the movement of her own sleek needle, drawing loop after loop of wool into a pattern; but what Imogen's pattern was she could hardly tell. She abandoned the wish to make clear her own interpretation, looking up presently with a faint smile. "I'm sorry, dear.
Imogen did not descend to self-exculpation. She spoke gently and gravely, casting only a glance at Sir Basil, as if calling him to witness her pained magnanimity. "It would be fun, you know, to help her to start a new one," said Rose; "something rebellious and anarchic. Will you help me if I do, Eddy? Come, let's sow discord in Imogen's Eden, like a couple of serpents."
The next morning, when Annie went away, there was an excited conclave among the sisters. "She means to do it," said Susan, and she wept. Imogen's handsome face looked hard and set. "Let her, if she wants to," said she. "Only think what people will say!" wailed Jane. Imogen tossed her head. "I shall have something to say myself," she returned.
Upton was much better off without her maid; yet something of the pathos of that image remained with him the child deprived of its toy; something, too, of discomfort over that echo of her father that he now and then detected in Imogen's serene sense of rightness. This discomfort, this uneasy sense of echoes, returned more than once in the days that followed. Mrs.
In Imogen's whole bearing he read renouncement, but renouncement, in her hand, would assuredly prove a scourge for her mother's shoulders. For the time that they must be together, she and her mother, her sense of her own proved rightness would be relentless, as inflexible as and as relentless as her sense of bitter wrong. Valerie's shoulders were bared and bowed. She was ready to take it all.
Imogen's right, you know." "In a sense, no doubt. But all the same our defect is that we have so little interest except as individuals." "What more interest can any one have than that?" "In older civilizations people may have all the accumulated interest of the deep background, the long past, that, quite unconsciously, they embody." "We have the interest of the future."
No king's court could present you such an array. Where else could we find a philosopher like Hamlet? a friend like Antonio? a witty fellow like Mercutio? where else Imogen's piquant's face? Portia's gravity and womanly sweetness? Rosalind's true heart and silvery laughter? Cordelia's beauty of holiness? These would form the centre of the court, but the purlieus, how many-coloured!
This mixture, which Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, desiring her, if she found herself ill upon the road, to take it; and so with blessings and prayers for her safety and happy deliverance from her undeserved troubles he left her. Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the dwelling of her two brothers, who had been stolen away in their infancy.
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