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Smith has at last begun to return my affection. I think he likes me a little now. At least, he calls here frequently, and he told me once he would like to tear me limb from limb! This remark made me shudder, not unpleasantly. It must be good to be torn in that way by such a nice man. "The rose-leaves you sent from Italy retained some of their sweet smell.
It was ashy grey, and it stared up at the grey sky. The brain image was himself, and he was dead. He watched it, and it faded away. There was nothing left but the scattered rose-leaves and the torn flower on the broken stem. The terrible shadow was gone; he felt that it was gone for ever. It was dead, and it would haunt him no longer.
I have sought only the present; I have adjured all toil, all ambition, and laughed at the future; my hand has plucked the rose-leaves, and now they lie withered in the grasp. My youth flies me age scowls on me from the distance; an age of frivolities that I once scorned; yet yet, had I formed a different creed, how much I might have done! But but, out on this cant!
Gabriele had placed a full-blown monthly rose in the light locks of the bride, and had arranged with peculiar grace, around the plaited hair at the back of her head, the green rose-leaves like a garland.
There was much old china, and on the walls were a few family portraits, of which their owner was justly proud; and in the air there lingered a faint fragrance of dried rose-leaves, delicate yet unconquerable. Even the full tide of midsummer sweetness which flowed through the open windows could not altogether overcome that subtle memory of summers long gone by.
He was ever searching out knowledge. Meanwhile, a gnat put him in a passion, and unleavened bread destroyed his peace. Though he might sleep on rose-leaves, as he could not command the wind, they came often to double under him, and annoy him with bad dreams. "When shall I be a disembodied spirit, and no longer subject to the petty annoyances that belong to the flesh?" cried he, fretfully.
A white lace mantilla, Dios de mi alma! A black one for the visits. And the night-gowns like cobwebs. The petticoats!" She stopped abruptly. "And the smocks?" cried her listeners, excitedly. "The smocks? They are more beautiful than Blandina's? They were pack in rose-leaves " "Ay! yi! yi! yi!" The old woman dropped her head on her breast and waved her arms. She was a study for despair.
It is an Eastern wine, unknown to trade, and therefore untampered with. I see you are looking at the rose-leaves on the surface. That is a Persian custom, and I think a pretty one. They float away from your lips in the action of drinking, and therefore they are no obstacle." I tasted the wine and found it delicious, soft and mellow as summer moonlight.
"Have you no clews to their identity beyond this parasol?" "None, Sweetwater, if you except these few faded rose leaves picked up from the floor of Mr. Adams's study." "Then you have given me a problem, Mr. Gryce," remarked the young detective dubiously, as he eyed the parasol held out to him and let the rose-leaves drop carelessly through his fingers.
She was lying quietly with closed eyes, Prosper looking down at her, his finger on her even pulse, when, without opening her long lids, she asked, "What smells so good?" Prosper started, drew away his fingers, then answered, smiling, "It's a jar of dried rose-leaves. Wait a moment, I'll let you hold it." He took the jar from the window sill and carried it to her.
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