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"Then what would you do?" asked Clara, tempted by the apparent sympathy with her in the effect of her naughtiness. "You might make a party for him, Clara," suggested Olive, with lack-lustre irony. Clara gave way to a loud burst of grief. "Oh, Olive Halleck! I didn't suppose you could be so cruel!" Olive rose impatiently.
"Of course, though, what I really want is to help him pass the time, if I can. He must be very lonely for thoroughly congenial people. Must you go? Be sure you give the poor dear man my message. And good bye. Next time, I do hope I shall have a respectable maid to let you out. I'm quite ashamed Good bye." Out on the steps in the clean February air and sunshine, Olive drew in a deep, full breath.
But then the question arises promptly, how can you?" Olive smiled a little sadly. Loath though she was to acknowledge it to Dolph, of late she had been finding out that comprehension does not always make for full approval. "As you say, Dolph," she told him; "it's the woman of me. After our own fashion, we every one of us are natural nurses; we know when our menfolk are in pain."
"She is gone to bed;" and Olive paused, uncertain whether she should tell him that her mamma was ill. Again there was a silence during which, do what he would, Captain Rothesay could not keep his eyes from the earnest, wistful, entreating gaze of his "little Olive." At last, he lifted her on his knee, and took her face between his two hands, saying, in a smothered tone,
A short cut through the glimmering olive grove of the Cap led toward the Villa Mirasole, and plunging into the gray-green gloom he came suddenly upon the curé and two little acolytes, the boys robed in white and scarlet.
He said he would never ask any woman to live on pickled verse feet, and he has also told me something of his family, which must be a good one." "Olive," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I don't believe at all in the necessity or the sense in your precipitating plans of marrying. It is all airy talk, anyway.
A young lady sprang out; ran up the steps, and rang the bell impatiently. She was of the olive complexion, with a sharp profile: dark eyes with long lashes; narrow mouth with delicately sensuous lips; small head, feet, and hands, with long taper fingers; lithe and very slender figure moving with serpent-like grace.
She thanked him. The bells of all the churches were ringing the Ave Maria when she left the Hotel de Russie an hour ago, and it was dark when she reached her own room. The stars were bright, shining through a rift of clouds that hid the crescent moon. Olive laid the awkwardly-shaped parcel she carried down upon the table while she lit her candle. Then she got her scissors and cut the string.
Darrell's pale, intellectual face, penetrating eyes, and dark hair already streaked with gray would have attracted attention anywhere, as would also Walcott with his olive skin, his cynical smile, and graceful, sinuous movement. In addition, Darrell's peculiar mental condition and the fact that his identity was enveloped in a degree of mystery rendered him doubly interesting.
These tests point to the fact that the oil may be considered as resembling almond or olive oil in composition, a conclusion which is borne out by the subsequent experiments.
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