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They had been through several churches, and one picture gallery that was magnificent. A little withered-up old German was giving her some painting lessons. If Hanny could only be there, she would be quite content; yet she did think she loved America best. Hanny was so delighted that her eyes shone, and her cheeks were pink as a rose-leaf. But Mrs.
Her small, straight, rose-leaf lips parted over small, dazzlingly white teeth, and the outline of her face in profile reminded you of an etching in its distinctness, although it was by no means perfect according to the rules of art.
She lost all her plumpness that winter, her rose-leaf complexion faded to the colour of dingy wax, and her yellow hair, so brightly burnished when she had time to brush it, became towzled and dull; but her heart beat as bravely-kind as ever, and she never gave in. She climbed up one day in a hurry to Mr.
She had forgotten her sweet, half sad shyness, and sat with faint flush on her face, her lips parted, her blue eyes fixed on his. "A heroine of my own creation," he went on; "and I gave her an ideal face lilies and roses blended, rose-leaf lips, a white brow, eyes the color of hyacinths, and hair of pale gold."
She had flung out her hands desperately, the dainty tapering fingers working with strenuous, nervous motions but now they were tightly clenched in the rose-leaf palms, and she stood bracing herself, like a statue of defiance.
Turn and turn and turn again; there is ever a crumpled rose-leaf to vex you." It is not often that we find such active benevolence as Diderot's, in conjunction with such a vein of philosophy as follows:
One Philadelphia woman, engaged in scattering rose-leaf remedies over the great cancer of the land, concluded that the editor of the Visiter horsewhipped the unfortunate man she called husband, once a day, with great regularity.
Nan seemed to have paled a little under the rose-leaf texture of her cheek. "Why, you know," she said, "what they all come back to. Whatever they believe, they come back to that. I don't see how they can. I couldn't, it scares me so. They tell you what He said Christ."
Brabazon painted, with a flowing brush, rose-leaf water-colours, unmindful of the long indifference of two generations, until it happened that the present generation, with its love of slight things, came upon this undiscovered genius. It has hailed him as master, and has dragged him into the popularity of a special exhibition of his work at the Goupil Galleries.
He's got a muzzle like a rose-leaf and the chest of a two-year-old. What's demoralised you? G. Funk. That's the long and the short of it. Funk! M. But what is there to funk? G. Everything. It's ghastly. M. Ah! I see. You don't want to fight, And by Jingo when we do, You've got the kid, you've got the Wife, You've got the money, too. That's about the case, eh? G. I suppose that's it.
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