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I did not like being described as a suckling, but every lot has its crumpled rose-leaf, and in all other respects the report of the elders was a triumph.
At first it was merely an uneasiness, which he could not place, a vague and nebulous irritation, a single crumpled rose-leaf. Then it grew to the proportions of a menace which banked his horizon with thunder, though the sun still shone overhead. Finally it became a terror, clutching him at the throat. He seemed to feel the need of identifying it. By an effort he recognised it as a lack.
I'd rather be the gentle shade, Lengthening as eve comes stealing on, And rest in pensive sadness there, When those bright rays are gone. I will not be a smile to play Upon thy coral lip, and shed Around it sweetness, like the sun Risen from his crimson bed. Oh, no! I'll be the tear that steals In pity from that eye of blue, Making the cheek more lovely red, Like rose-leaf dipp'd in dew.
It seemed to him a singularly bare, unshaded way to the rose-leaf bowers his poets had been used to sing; but undoubtedly the roads were many, and this was one. Possibly the poets wouldn't say the same now. Dick ought to know. But at least there must be no warfare here in this warm patch of shelter snatched out of the cold and dark. "Run over this," he said. "Nan and I've been doing it.
Her delicate, tiny figure was as round as a child's, her funny hands as quaint as some fat baby's, with short fingers and dimpled knuckles. She was a creature as much made to be petted as a King-Charles spaniel, and petted she was, far beyond any possibility of a crumpled rose-leaf. Mrs.
"See what Divine Love has sent me!" Mr. Evringham raised his eyebrows and smiled, but he was soon assured that Love's messenger was not forgotten. He was instantly enveloped in a rapturous hug, and heroically endured the bitter of the watchcase pressing into his jugular for the sweet of the rose-leaf kisses that were assaulting his cheek like the quick reports of a tiny Gatling gun.
"She's on our floor in number ten, with Joy Cross." Sue Hemphill crumpled up like a withered rose-leaf and leaned against a blackboard for support. "Oh, you poor thing! You must have been born for trouble ." "Now, Sue, don't!" Annabel protested. "Just because you had her last year and didn't like her " "Do you? Does Ruth? Does anybody?" Sue asked. "Miss North does," Ruth replied; "and Mrs.
The smoke was not so thick in the room, but its fumes were heavy enough. In a crib in one corner lay a child of about two years of age. Its rose-leaf of a face was wrinkled up in its efforts to make its terrified little voice heard. Peggy darted upon it and hugged it close to her. Then, with renewed courage, she started to make her way back again.
Hussell Barter, with that touching look to be seen on the faces of many English ladies, that look of women who are always doing their duty, their rather painful duty; whose eyes, above cheeks creased and withered, once rose-leaf hued, now over-coloured by strong weather, are starry and anxious; whose speech is simple, sympathetic, direct, a little shy, a little hopeless, yet always hopeful; who are ever surrounded by children, invalids, old people, all looking to them for support; who have never known the luxury of breaking down of these was Mrs.
It has come and gone in a week." "You look tired, and your furs are too heavy. Won't you come in and rest until my car comes?" The other woman shook her head. She was still pretty, for hers was a face to which pallor lent the delicate sweetness of a white rose-leaf. "It is only a block or two farther. I am going home," she answered in a low voice. "Won't you come to my shop sometimes?
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